Underappreciated
by TotallyLosingIt
Summary: A serial murderer is out for blood, and the "underappreciated" members of teams are being targeted. When four members of four familiar teams are captured, the four teams must work together to find their guys, before it's too late. Psych/CSI/CSI: NY/NCIS
1. Prologue

**So, first story on here, I hope you like! If you're confused, it goes Psych, then CSI: NY, then NCIS.**

Shawn was pretty damn content where he was. There was no way he was going with these creeps. He stared the brown eyes in the ski mask down as they stood still, knees bent, arms locked on the other man's shoulders.

Mask's partner watched from the side, not daring to move, not really daring to breathe. All three men had been like this for at least forty-five seconds, ever since they had surprised Shawn in the Psych office and pulled the gun on him.

It was then the psychic surprised them, however, doing some kind of weird karate move and twisting the gun out of him hands. Now they were all locked in a staring contest, the two criminals wary now, and Shawn openly smirking, pleased with himself.

"Mr. Spencer," the first masked man said slowly, "Let's not make this hard on you. If you don't come with me now, my partner and I will be forced to spill blood, and I assure you, we don't want to clean that up."

Shawn's eyes narrowed. He didn't recognize the voice, and he hadn't taken on a case in a while, so either these people were confusing him for someone else (not likely, the man had just used his name, after all) or they wanted him for some sort of sick revenge thing on his dad (gross and a little weird, but that's what he got for being the son of a successful cop).

Then his lips turned up in a friendly sort of smile, although his limbs stayed locked and ready. "Thanks, but no thanks. I've got a date tonight, and I'd really hate to miss it."

"Right," Mask #1 said, nodding slowly. "Well, in that case…"

Mask #2 lunged for Shawn from the left, but he'd seen him shifting way before he moved and was ready. The other man met empty air and took a nose-dive into the floor of the Psych building.

The psychic had seen the almost-funny scene but was more focused on Mask #1, who had ignored his partner and swiped at Shawn with a wicked looking blade. Shawn pulled his stomach in and lashed out, almost breaking the other man's knuckles as the heel of his palm smashed into the gloved hand.

Mask #1 howled loudly and clutched his hand, spitting swear words out from his clenched teeth and waving his hand up and down.

Shawn would've stopped to laugh in his face, but instead he raced, instead, outside and started hollering his head off.

"Somebody help me! Help! They're trying to kidnap me!"

"Whoa, whoa, what's up?" A man yelled, leaning his head out of a car after pulling up to the curb.

The pseudo psychic skidded to a stop in front of the car, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the Psych office. "Thanks dude," he panted, jerking his thumb behind his back. "There were these two dudes wearing ski masks. They tried to kidnap me or… something…"

His voice trailed off as he spotted something in the car, his amazing eyesight cutting through the darkness of the winter evening and zoning in on a black piece of fabric in the passenger seat. It looked suspiciously like a hat. A black, two holed, ski hat…

He looked up at the driver, who held a gun so close to him it almost touched his nose. Shawn's eyes went cross eyed as he tried to focus to the barrel.

"Don't move," the driver said, his voice dangerously low.

Shawn's hand went up automatically, and he gulped. "Listen, man—"

"You talk too much," Mask #1's voice came behind him. Too late, Shawn turned to face him, and too late did he see the knife hilt swinging at him.

There was a loud crack and his temple exploded in pain. Then his body lost the fight and Shawn fell into the darkness.

"Adam."

The quirky lab tech jerked awake suddenly as his name echoed in his ears, his mouth automatically opening to shoot out an excuse.

He, however, thought better of it when his boss, Detective Mac Taylor, raised a brow at the young man. "How long have you been here?"

Adam bit his lip and looked away sheepishly. He'd known how long he'd been in the CSI lab, and he knew that if he told Mac he'd be sent home and given a sick day. "Um…"

"Go home." Mac held up his hand to block Adam's protests. "I mean it, Ross, you better get some sleep. I'll have Danny take your shift tomorrow, okay? Go. Now."

"Yeah, okay," Adam sighed, but he smiled wearily anyways. "Thanks, Mac."

Mac smiled back and ruffled Adam's ridiculously curly hair. "Eleven o'clock, okay? Don't forget."

Adam nodded dutifully and got up, hanging his lab coat on the hook where it belonged, nodding goodbye to his co-workers and edging past Mac so he wouldn't have to look at him.

New York traffic was just as bad at night as it was at day, even at one in the morning. It was pretty ridiculous how long he'd stayed at the lab, but it was, after all, his job, and he loved his job. Catching the bad guys the geek way was just as gratifying as pulling the handcuffs out and reading criminals their Miranda rights. Many of the CSIs he worked with still carried guns, but he couldn't fire a gun if his life depended on it, which it normally did.

It was why he spent most of his time in the lab instead of out in the field, safe, out of danger. For the most part.

Adam sighed tiredly as he pulled into his apartment's garage and turned off his car. He thought that he could probably fall asleep in the driver's seat as it was, and contemplated the enticing idea of spending the night in the car.

It wasn't a hard decision, contrary to popular belief, and Adam made a face as he got out of the car, staring up at the multiple stairs he had to climb to reach his apartment. The night air was chilly and Adam hurried to the stairs to get out of it, pulling up his coat collar to the neckline, huddling to get warm enough.

A hand closed around his shoulder and he jumped, yelping a little bit. A man, a stranger, really, took a step back in surprise.

"Jeez, man, take it easy," he complained.

Adam felt a little sheepish. "Sorry, dude. Can I… help you?"

"Yeah," the man said, and he smiled a wicked smile. "You can."

Before Adam could ask what he meant by that, something hard crashed into his head from behind. He gasped and fell to his knees, looking up at the man with a sort of ironic, betrayed expression. Black spots swam in front of his eyes and he knew no more.

Very Special NCIS agent Tony DiNozzo was silently cussing his boss out in his head. New York was an unnecessarily long drive from D.C., and to come all the way over here, in the middle of the night—sorry, _morning, _was a little-more-then-ridiculous way of solving a case. Or going on a stakeout, as this case called for.

His partner, Ziva David (pronounced Dah-veed) was asleep and leaning against the window, and any other time the juvenile agent would've taken the time to take a picture of the former Mossad officer.

But not now, because Tony was still pissed as hell at Gibbs, and if he had his way, he'd be either at home sleeping the morning away, or hanging out at Jessica's (hottest chick on the planet) place. Either of those options were wonderful and tempting to say the least, but a case was a case, and he'd be insane to go against a direct order from Gibbs.

Because Leroy Jethro Gibbs wasn't one to cross in a dark ally, in a completely respectful way, of course.

"Great, now you're being polite when he isn't even here," Tony grumbled under his breath.

Ziva stirred next to him, sighing in her sleep. Tony smiled a bit, more in amusement then anything else. He'd never actually seen Ziva sleep, mostly due to the fact that Ziva practically never slept. Ever.

He pulled into the apartment complex of their suspect's ex-girlfriend, and Tony contemplated waking Ziva up.

Probably not, he figured, considering he'd never seen what she would do when woken up abruptly. Mossad officers were known for killing people, after all. She'd probably stick a knife through his chest before her eyes were even open.

Tony, instead, opened the door very carefully and quietly, and slipped out, not shutting it all the way in case it would wake her up. He stretched his long legs and yawned, scanning the apartment's campus for anything out of the ordinary. A man walked tiredly from his garage to the stairs in one of the buildings, but that wasn't weird, if you were talking crime.

Several joints in his body cracked, and Tony winced at the odd sound. He was about to turn and _slowly _wake up his partner when he saw something dart across his peripheral vision.

Tony's hand crept towards the Glock he held in his shoulder holster, green eyes rapidly scanning for any signs of trouble. The night was quiet and then his trained ears caught a cry of pain, and without hesitation he raced towards the sound.

"Freeze! NCIS!" He yelled in advance, skidding to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and aiming his gun quickly.

A figure dressed in black whirled and raised his hands. Tony's eyes went from him to the man he'd seen earlier on the ground, unconscious, and then back to him. "You are in so much trouble—"

A crushing blow to the back of his head cut off his reply, and Tony dropped to the ground next to Adam, eyes closed.

Ziva had been awake the entire time and wanted more then anything to drop back into wonderful sleep. Knowing, however, that they both had a job to do, she sat up and stretched, searching for her partner.

When she didn't spot him her eyes narrowed, her head swiveling as she looked around. "I swear, Tony, if you are playing one of those tricks on me…" she warned under her breath.

But Tony was no where to be seen. Ziva got out of the car and got her gun out, holding it in front of her, ready to raise it at the first sign of danger. She searched the apartments one by one, stopping when she got to the second one.

At the bottom of the steps something small, dark, and round covered the gray cement ground. Ziva's heart dropped. Even from this distance she could tell it was blood.

Tony's blood? She didn't know. Whipping out her cell phone she called him, but the phone went straight to voicemail.

Ziva scowled, hoping it was nothing. God, she hoped it was nothing.

"Gibbs?" she said when her boss picked up. "We might have a problem…"


	2. Missing in Action

Lassiter would never admit it, but for the first time since the ice cream truck incident, he was actually worried about the psychic. As he and Juliet stood staring at the Psych office, he felt a stirring of uneasiness in his gut. Something was very, very wrong, and he only expected it to get worse.

Rubbing his hand over his face he turned to his partner. "What we got, O'Harra?"

Juliet was biting her lip in protective anger, not hearing Lassiter at first. When he repeated her name she looked up and sighed, a puff of air blowing her blonde bangs up from her face.

"Sorry, Lassiter," she said. "We have two eye witnesses who say they saw Shawn run out into the street hollering, and a car came by and stopped for him. After they saw he was talking to the driver they turned in, and when they woke again the Psych office was a mess and Shawn was missing."

"Have you told Guster?" he asked as he scanned the mess of the office.

Juliet nodded. "He went to pick up Henry and is meeting us at the station."

"I see." Lassiter pointed to the white slash of paint across the door. "And does anyone know what the hell this is?"

The blonde frowned as she squinted at the smeared lettering. "Nobody knows quite yet, sir, but we put out a broadcast in case anyone else has had a serial killer like this before."

Lassiter looked up sharply. "This could be the work of a serial?"

Juliet didn't look happy. "He left his mark, Carlton," she answered, running her finger over the dry paint where the letters were. "Underappreciated. Sound like anyone you know?"

"Yeah," he grumbled. "Me."

His partner shot him a dark look. "Shawn does more for this station then any other cop and you know it. Now he's gone and all you can do is feel bad for yourself?"

"I didn't mean it like—" Lassiter started to say, but Juliet turned on her heel and headed toward McNab.

"Buzz, can you get me a ride to the station?"

"Uh, yeah, Detective," Buzz said, sounding a little uncertain. "You're not riding with Detective Lassiter?"

"Oh, no," she answered, shooting the detective an icy look. "His ego is much, much bigger then his head."

Ouch. Lassiter winced, feeling that stab into his giant ego. He pursed his lips and, childishly, turned away from her. One thing was for sure, he figured. A Shawn-less day made things very, very tense.

And he found himself wishing the psychic were here to break it.

"I am sorry, Gibbs," Ziva apologized for the fifth time. Gibbs shot her a warning look.

"It's not your fault, David," he said again. "Let's find Tony, and then we'll talk, alright?"

She didn't answer but stepped back to study the scene yet again. The past few hours had lightened the grounds, making it easier to see the dark, yet small, pool of blood that had all but dried on the ground. Having already taken a sample, Ziva confirmed without a doubt that it was Tony's, and now his entire team had gathered in New York.

Timothy McGee, christened McGeek, and anything else you could spin off of his last name, by Tony, stood taking pictures again and again of both the pool of blood and the stairs.

"What was he doing out?" Gibbs asked, turning to Ziva again. "Why way over here?"

"Maybe he wanted to go to the bathroom," McGee suggested.

"He would've woken me up first," Ziva corrected him. "Tony wasn't stupid, McGee. We were on a stakeout."

"Could that be why he was taken?" Gibbs mused, staring at the stairs. "We have the ex-girlfriend in custody, right?"

"Yeah," McGee answered, "but boss, she insists that she had nothing to do with either the case or Tony's disappearance."

"Well, yeah, McGee," Gibbs said, like that was obvious, "we know _that. _I want her for a witness."

"David, finish processing," he called to the ex-Mossad agent. "I'm going to find what he was so interested in seeing."

He climbed the stairs and examined the railing, pulling on a pair of white latex gloves. Shining a flashlight across the railing, he stopped at a barely noticeable splash of red.

Gibbs nodded slowly, suspicion entering his mind. Taking a swab he scratched a bit of the dried blood and waved to McGee.

"What's up, boss?" McGee panted after running up the stairs. Gibbs handed him the swab and pointed at his scanner, and the young agent nodded and inserted the swab.

The results came back immediately, but McGee frowned when he saw them. "Boss, this blood isn't Tony's."

"Then who's is it, McGee?" Gibbs demanded.

"A… Adam Ross? He's a CSI at NYPD."

"Alright," Gibbs said, excited that they finally got a suspect. "David, finish up here. Let's pay a visit to this Adam Ross."

"Actually, Gibbs," Ziva said, a weird look flashing across her face, "Adam Ross lives in this building."

Gibbs' brows rose. "Then what are you waiting for, an invitation? Go knock on his door!"

Ziva took an uneasy look up the stairs. "He lives in this building."

"So?" Gibbs asked, not seeing where she was getting at. "Less distance to walk."

She pursed her lips, and then shrugged, turning and trekking up the stairs. If her memory served right, she reached the door, started to knock, and froze.

"Um, Gibbs? You're going to want to see this," she called down.

The gray haired man rolled his eyes skyward. "Keep processing, McGee," he snapped, turned and hiking up the stairs himself.

He turned and stood next to Ziva, staring at the door. "What the hell does this mean?"

The door was normal except for the white slash of paint that cut it in half, contrast wise. Written in messy black sharpie were the words, "Underappreciated".

"Danny," Mac called to one of his CSIs. "You seen Adam yet?"

"Nope, bossman," Danny Messer answered, tilting his blonde head in a questioning way. "I took his shift, though. Is it eleven already?"

Mac shook his head. "It's eleven thirty, actually," he said, frowning. "He hasn't checked in, hasn't called…"

"That isn't like him," Lindsay Monroe, another CSI, said worriedly. "He's always here."

"Well, he was really tired went I sent him home last night," Mac replied, a troubled look on his face.

"That's probably it," Detective Stella Bonasera said, shaking her brown curls. "He just lost track of time."

"Yeah, well, he hasn't been answering his cell phone," Mac said. "Or his home phone, for that matter."

Danny frowned, starting to get worried now. "You think we should check it out?"

Mac nodded. "Yeah. Take Lindsay, see if he's alright. And if he is, tell him he's on desk duty for the next three weeks."

The younger man grinned and nodded to the redhead. "Let's go, Montana."

Both hopped into Danny's car and he started it, backing out of the parking garage.

They arrived quickly enough through New York traffic, and before Danny had even put the car in "park" Lindsay had opened the door and was out and running to the crime scene tape.

"What happened?" she yelled. "Hey! What happened?"

"Ma'am," a lanky man with short, light brown to blonde hair said, holding out his hands to push her back behind the tape, "you can't come in here. There's been a crime."

Lindsay eyed him icily and pulled out her badge just as Danny came up behind her. "NYPD. Our friend lives here. What happened?"

The young man stared at her and then at Danny. "Uh, well… hey, boss!"

"Yeah?"

"There're cops here to see you," he called back, sounding uncertain about the last part.

Danny and Lindsay spotted another man and a woman coming down the stairs from Adam's floor.

"What's this about cops?" The man retorted.

They bristled as one. "A CSI lives here," Lindsay snapped. "He didn't show up to work, he hasn't been answering his phone, and now you're here. And who are you again?"

"NCIS," the woman said as they both flashed their badges.

Danny scoffed. "You have no jurisdiction here, there's nothing even remotely Navy here."

The man eyed him icily. "One of our guys was taken last night. By force," he said, stepping back so they could get a good look at the blood puddle on the ground. "We have every right to be here."

"I don't care about some agent," Lindsay said bluntly. "Adam is MIA, and we need to find him, now."

"Adam?" the woman spoke up, looking curious now. "This wouldn't be Adam Ross…?"

Danny and Lindsay exchanged glances. "Yeah," Danny said, sounding unsure for the first time. "How did you…?"

It was their turn to have a silent conversation, and then the man sighed. "We found Adam's blood on the railing," he said. "And then we found this."

He nodded up the stairs, and Danny nodded at Lindsay to stay with the Feds before heading up there to see for himself.

Lindsay waited anxiously, ignoring the questioning looks from the agents next to her, until Danny appeared at the top of the stairs. His face was white.

"Danny?"

He didn't answer and instead walked up to her and wrapped her in a hug. She blinked against his broad chest. "What?"

"It's not good, Montana," he said quietly. "You remember that serial killer case we worked a few months back?"

"The Underappreciated Killings?" she confirmed, afraid of what he was saying. "Danny, that case went cold. You aren't saying…?"

He nodded against her shoulder, and for a moment she lost it, struggling to pull a breath through her winded lungs. "You can't be saying he did this!"

"Who?" The man said, looking from one CSI to the other.

Lindsay ignored them for a moment. "We'd better tell Mac to be expecting a…" she winced, "… a tape, soon."

Danny closed his eyes and took a step back, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. Finally, he turned to the three confused Feds, still looking at them. "You'd better come to the station."

Greg Sanders was feeling good about himself. For being a level one CSI, the solo cases were the scariest, and also the best. With that rush of adrenaline of how he would do came the confidence that he would do Gil Grissom, his boss, proud.

This particular scene was about as plain as one could get, but that was okay with Greg. In fact, if he could find even a shred of evidence in the hot Vegas desert, he'd have something to brag about to his colleagues.

Of course, in order to do that he actually had to find some evidence, and even though he'd been out here for two hours, those chances were looking pretty slim. So far in the middle of the Vegas desert all he had gathered were a few drops of blood that he sent to the lab for DNA testing.

It wasn't even technically a crime scene except for the abandoned car and the blood drops in the trunk. Greg had spent the entire morning processing the car by himself, and he wasn't in the least bit happy with the results.

Sitting back against the abandoned sedan, Greg wiped sweat from his forehead and flipped out his cell phone.

"Hey, Grissom," he said into the phone when his boss picked up, "I think I'm done here. I'll call the tow truck to bring the sedan in and I'll follow, but I doubt we're going to get much else here."

"Alright, Greg, good job," Grissom answered. "I'll have Sara meet you at the lab, alright?"

Greg felt a flurry of anticipation in his gut, but he clamped it down. "No problem."

He hung up and looked around the scene, waving at the officer in charge of escorting him. "Alright, O'Riley, I'm going to check the perimeter and then we can go home. Sound good?"

The sandy haired officer nodded but said nothing, looking stoic as ever as he stood guard. Greg shook his head. The cop had been like the whole time they'd been here, refusing to say a word to him. He wondered if it was just because as a CSI, Greg was relatively new to this field stuff, or if it was just in his nature to keep his lips sealed?

Whatever. Greg shook his head and got up from his kneeling spot, walking carefully around the crime scene tape that surrounded the scene, his eyes carefully scanning the desert sand for anything out of the ordinary.

He hadn't even gotten halfway around when he heard a noise, a loud bang that sounded suspiciously like a gunshot.

Greg didn't carry a gun for the sole reason that was he not only new and not a very good shot, but he also happened to hate guns. So reaching for his own Glock that he knew wouldn't be there proved pointless.

Instead the young CSI dropped to the sand, ducking in case the bullet had been meant for him, and fumbled for his cell phone.

More shots rang out and Greg looked around frantically for cover. He was in the middle of a desert, there _was _no cover! He peered up at the bright blue sky, looking toward the car.

Three men were standing there, each holding a pretty huge gun in their hands. Greg was too far away to tell exactly what kind they were, but he could guess that they packed a lot of fire-power. And that was the last thing he needed.

He didn't think they could see him, so he stayed low and pulled out his cell phone, snapping a picture of each of the men. Sadly his Motorola wasn't the best candidate for a phone with a good camera, but he trusted that the A/V lab tech, Archie, could clear it up enough to get a positive I.D.

As he pressed send on the phone, sending the pics directly to Grissom, he looked up, searching the area for O'Riley. The cop was nowhere to be seen, and Greg wasn't sure if that worried or annoyed him. If the cop had run, Greg was a sitting duck.

The men seemed to be arguing about something, Greg noted as his keen ears picked up on the raised voices. He still couldn't make out the words, but it didn't sound like they were having a cup of tea.

Greg decided that now would be a wonderful time to escape, so he got up to his knees, careful not to alert the men, and turned around.

The butt of a gun smacked him full in the face before he could get a chance to see past the barrel to the person holding it, and Greg let out a cry of pain as he crashed to the sandy ground. His hand automatically went to his cheek but stopped before it reached his face, instead holding it out as if it could keep the AK-47 at bay before the bullets ripped him some new holes.

"We've got a snooper!" The man behind the gun yelled to the others. Greg panicked for a second, feeling the phone in his pocket buzz as he received a text, probably from Grissom.

"Where the hell did he come from?" One of them demanded as they reached the two.

"I don't know, man," said the guy over Greg. "He was just laying here, spying on you guys."

One of the men kicked Greg lightly in the chest. "His vest says he's a CSI."

"Hey, CSI," said the one behind the gun, "what's your name?"

Greg blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it stubbornly. This apparently didn't amuse any of the men, and two of them grabbed his arms and hoisted him up, shoving the barrel of the gun under his chin.

"I said, what's your name?" the man growled again.

He swallowed. "Greg Sanders."

The man nodded. "Greg Sanders, are you the youngest person on your team?"

"What are you doing?" The one holding Greg hissed. He waved them off.

Greg didn't know how to answer him. Yes, he was the youngest CSI at the moment at twenty seven, but why did that matter? Deciding it couldn't hurt to answer, he nodded feebly.

There were a few moments of silence, and then the man nodded again, as if making a decision. "Well, Greg Sanders, this is going to hurt a little."

"Hey, wait—" Greg started, but a crushing blow to the back of his head left him crashing to his knees, and then he blacked out.

Mac Taylor got to his feet to greet the Feds as they followed his CSIs into the room.

"Hey, I'm Detective Mac Taylor," he said, holding out his hand to shake.

"I'm Special Agent Gibbs, this is Officer David," the silver-haired man said, shaking his hand and nodding at his partner.

"It's nice to meet you," Mac said politely. "I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Yeah, me too," Gibbs answered, looking and sounding impatient. "Your CSIs wouldn't tell me what was going on with the Underappreciated Killer, so why don't you fill me in?"

Mac bit his lip and nodded to Danny, who went to the evidence box Mac had pulled out.

"A few months ago," he started, "we had a team of EMTs. There were four of them, three members and a 'leader'. One of the members was kidnapped and brutally murdered, and his entire torture session was taped and sent to the 'leader'. They got live feed of the murder."

"It was called the Underappreciated Killings because the guy only took the youngest members on the team," Danny said, spreading pictures out on the table. He pointed to each one as he spoke. "The killer would break into their house and take them, then slash a white streak of paint across the door. He'd write "underappreciated" in the white part and that'd be his signature."

"And you said this case went cold?" Ziva questioned, staring at the gruesome pictures.

"He killed four people," Mac answered, his face going grim. "EMTs, Firefighters, cops, and one Think Tank group. Each of the murders occurred within a month, and all by the same person."

"We almost had him," an African American man said, coming in. "Flack was close enough to see that he was male, but he escaped, and the trail went cold."

"Until now," Mac said grimly. He nodded to the newcomer. "Agents, this is Sheldon Hawkes, another one of my CSIs. Hawkes, these are the NCIS agents I told you about."

Gibbs shook Hawkes' hand. "Sorry about your guy," he said.

"Sorry about _yours," _Hawkes returned. "We'll catch this guy. Now it's personal."

"Speaking of which," Ziva spoke up, "is it alright for you to be on this case? If this serial killer sends torture tapes…"

"If we're off, so are you," Lindsay said fiercely. "Your guy may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but once these guys realize that he's a Fed, they'll come after you, too."

"Linds," Danny warned.

The redhead glared full on at him and then directed it back to the agents. Gibbs also gave Ziva a disapproving stare. She frowned, not liking being outnumbered.

"So what do we do now?" Mac interrupted with an awkward cough.

"I have my agent processing the scene," Gibbs said. "If it's okay, I'm going to call up my lab specialist to come and help out."

Ziva stared at her boss. He'd never demanded that Abby Scuito be the one on the case so politely.

Mac nodded slowly. "That would probably be a good idea," he admitted. "Since we're short our best lab tech."

The agents shot a look at each other, each hearing the note of sadness that had crept into the detective's voice.

He got a hold of himself and turned to the agents. "What do we do?" he asked rhetorically. Mac sighed. "We wait."


	3. Pieces of a Puzzle

Tony DiNozzo woke abruptly when his head smacked against something. Moaning pathetically he reached to touch his head, but his arms wouldn't move. As his senses came back to him one by one, he realized his wrists were tied behind him, and there was a gag in his mouth. Wherever he was, he was in danger.

He was also moving, he noted as he bumped up again. From the surrounding darkness he suspected he was in the trunk of a car, and probably going along a country road somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Tony remembered last night and winced as his head slammed into something hard.

Something soft touched his fingers, and he jumped, letting out a surprised cry muffled by the gag. The thing touched him again, and he realized that they were fingers. Turning his head Tony sought out the person squeezing his fingers and made out a shadowy form. Bleary blue eyes blinked at him slowly, meeting Tony's. The agent nodded sympathetically. _That's a concussion…_

Before either of them could do anything other the car they were in slammed to a sudden stop, and Tony and the other man slid in the trunk painfully. Tony hit the lid of the trunk and almost immediately afterwards it opened, streaming bright light into the trunk. He squeezed his eyes shut against the glare whimpering slightly as the light shot into his head, making it pound harder.

"Who's the extra guy?" a gruff voice asked.

"He saw us," another man said, sounding defensive. "We couldn't just leave him there. Charlie told us to take him, he's a fed."

"That'll work," the first man said, and Tony opened his eyes just in time to see a cloth coming towards his face.

There wasn't much he could do to get away, so he let the sickly sweet smell engulf him.

Grissom's phone buzzed, receiving a text. He pulled it out absently as he was walking towards his office, flipping through a file in his other hand.

Sighing, he tore his eyes away from the interesting file to open the text from his youngest member, Greg, who he'd sent out solo for a crime scene. It wasn't his first, but the way Greg took it it might as well have been. Grissom smiled as he opened the message.

His smile turned into a frown quickly as a foggy picture of two men with scary looking guns showed up. There was no message to go with the picture, but Grissom recognized the cry for help when he saw it.

"Catherine!" He yelled, loud enough for the entire crime lab to hear him. The blonde woman hurried toward him, a quizzical look on her face.

"What's up, Gil? You know I was right here."

"We've got a problem," he said, showing her the picture. "Greg sent this. He's at a crime scene, alone."

"Oh, my God," Catherine breathed, turning on her heel and pulling out her cell phone. It rang for two seconds and then Detective Brass answered.

"Catherine, what's up?"

"Greg's at a crime scene," she said tightly, "and we think he might be involved in a hostage situation. He sent us a text, two males, big guns… it doesn't look like they've seen Greg yet."

"Alright," Brass said, all business, "Location of the crime scene?"

The blonde looked at Grissom and mouthed, "Where is he?"

Grissom took the phone from her hands and spoke the location he sent Greg quickly. Brass repeated the address back to be sure he had it right, and hung up without saying goodbye.

When he gave the phone back to Catherine she took one look at Grissom and raced to the elevator. On the way they ran into CSI Nick Stokes and CSI Sara Sidle. Grissom grabbed them both, radioing to the last CSI, Warrick Brown, and explained as they got into their separate Denali's.

The ride was tense as no one spoke a word. They arrived right after Brass did, and the stout cop greeted them with a grim smile, nodding to a figure on the ground.

Sara knelt by the body. "This was the officer on protective duty for Greg?"

Brass nodded. "Kent O'Riley. Good cop."

O'Riley had been killed with two shots, one skimming his neck, the fatal shot being the one that went right through his heart.

But Grissom wasn't concerned with the dead man at his feet. The only man he wanted to see, alive and well, was his youngest CSI member.

But Greg was no where to be found.

Nick and Sara scouted the perimeter where Greg said he'd be when Warrick drove up.

"Where is he?" he demanded as soon as he saw Grissom. "Where's Greg."

Grissom shook his head. "I'm sorry, Warrick. He's gone."

"Gris," Sara called, waving at him by a tree. "You're going to want to see this."

Warrick started towards it immediately, Grissom following a little more slowly. They reached the tree, and each CSI stared at it in puzzlement.

"What the hell?" Nick finally said, baffled.

The tree had been spray painted, a white slash of paint that was still wet marking the tree's base. Sloppy, Sharpie written words were on it. As Grissom got closer he realized it was one word, one that sent chills down his spine.

"Underappreciated," Warrick muttered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we have a problem," Grissom replied, reaching for his gloves. "A big, big problem."

The first thing Shawn noticed when he woke up was that he'd been tied to a chair, his wrists sore and burning from the rope holding them together, his chest tight from the ropes wrapped around it. He scowled, stretching as best he could and trying to work the kinks out of his neck.

"It'll hurt for a while," a voice said, "but you'll get used to it after a while."

Shawn jumped in his chair, turning his head in an attempt to identify the sound. He found that he was not alone in the kidnapping category, because there were two men sitting next to him, and an empty chair at the end.

The man who'd spoken to him inclined his blonde head. "Don't worry, I'm with the crime lab. No need to be afraid."

"Crime lab?" Shawn repeated. "Like, CSI crime lab?"

"Yeah," the man confirmed, nodding. He pushed against his bonds. "Not that that does much in this situation. CSI Greg Sanders," he said.

Shawn laughed. "Shawn Spencer, resident psychic consultant for the Santa Barbara PD."

Greg frowned. "Psychic?"

"Yeah," Shawn said, wincing as his head started pounding. "I find myself in these messes a lot."

"Wait, Santa Barbara?" Greg asked, sounding confused. "That's in California."

"Right," the psychic confirmed, looking at him curiously. "Are we not in California?"

"I'm from Las Vegas," he answered, frowning. "The last thing I remember was being at a crime scene. Basically these two guys were at my scene, I hid, but another dude found me. He asked if I was the youngest member of my team, and I said yes. He knocked me out and now I'm here."

"Weird," Shawn commented. "I went into my office and there were these two dudes waiting for me. I kicked their asses, went outside to find some help, and was surprised by the driver of the getaway vehicle."

Greg scowled. "Okay, then, you were obviously a target. I was where I shouldn't have been. A few minutes ago they woke one of other guys there—" he nodded to the empty chair "—and took him out. And that dude's been asleep ever since."

"Not anymore," said "dude" moaned as he rolled his head back. "God, what hit me, a semi truck?"

"Hey, dude," Shawn said. "You don't look so hot."

"No," the man said irritably. "I got chloroformed."

All three men winced. "Ouch."

"Yeah. Where are we?"

Shawn and Greg traded glances. "We don't know," Greg said. "Shawn's from California and I'm from Vegas. You are…?"

"Special Agent Tony DiNozzo," he said, "NCIS. I'm from DC."

"Whoa," Shawn said, his eyebrows going up. "He's a fed, and all the way from Washington. Now what?"

"Of course I'm a fed," Tony said, sounding annoyed. "And who are you again?"

Shawn nodded at him. "I'm Shawn Spencer, psychic detective."

Tony snorted. "Right."

"Really!" Shawn said, sounding indignant.

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'm CSI Greg Sanders, Las Vegas PD."

"Nice to meet you," Tony said sarcastically. "Forgive me if I don't shake your hand…"

Shawn laughed as he pulled against his own tied wrists.

"This is weird," Tony mused. "Why were we kidnapped? I mean, I know why _I _was…"

"What happened?"

He shrugged. "I saw the other dude on the stairs and went to see if I could help. Turned out to be a trap."

"Who knew?" Greg said, smirking.

"Shut up," Tony growled. "What did you do to get captured by a bunch of psychos?"

Shawn and Greg recounted their tales, and then they all sat in silence, watching the door.

"What do you think they're doing to him?" Tony said finally, breaking the silence.

They didn't get a chance to answer because then to door opened, and light flooded into the room.

Adam was flung inside, panting hard. Shawn, Tony, and Greg surveyed his injuries nervously as two men wrestled him into the chair and tied him to it. Then they slashed through Shawn's rope and picked him up by his forearms.

His hands still tied behind him, they led Shawn out of the door, leaving the three in darkness once again.

"Wow," Shawn said, smirking at the five men gathered in the big room, "you guys much be pretty desperate to have grabbed all cops. Well, cops, a consultant, and a fed."

"Shut up," one of them said, and Shawn squinted at him, his face lighting up.

"Is that you, Mask? Wow, you've changed since knocking me out in California!"

Mask, now a blonde man in his thirties, scowled and shoved Shawn into a chair. Then he walked over a camera sitting across from him and turned it on.

The first blow came out of no where, and Shawn couldn't stop the cry of pain before it escaped his lips. Pain erupted on his cheek, and he could feel blood pouring down his face.

"Jeez, dude," he grunted, "were the rings really necessary?"

"Completely," the man who hit him said, cracking his knuckles.

Repeated blows left Shawn breathless, staring up at the camera. He kept the self-assured, smirking expression on his face, even with every punch that sent him out of the chair and on the ground, unable to protect himself.

The men were saying something to the camera but he couldn't make out the words. His plaid shirt ripped where the men had kicked him repeatedly, and blood stained the floor where, he realized with horror, the other man's blood had spilled.

Shawn thought he was going to be sick as the metallic smell intruded his senses. He gagged as he coughed, his ribs bruised, maybe even cracked.

How long the beating continued, he didn't know, but he never took his eyes off of the camera, knowing it was for his friends, putting every good expression on his face as much as he could.

"It's not your fault," he mouthed when the beating was over, and he curled into the fetal position, feeling like he was going to be sick. His entire body ached. Mask grabbed his arms and hoisted him up, and Shawn gritted his teeth to keep from giving he satisfaction of hearing his pain.

Mask led him to the room, and Shawn memorized the layout of the giant warehouse, searching out the exits if they ever had a chance to escape. As the door opened and he was thrown into it he knew that each of his new friends would receive the same thing. Greg looked at him, horrified, knowing he was next. Shawn closed his eyes as he was tied back to the chair.

And as Mask advanced on Greg, he nodded to him confidently, praying that they wouldn't have to suffer more of these sessions.

Abby Scuito was the type of person you couldn't help liking, no matter how much she intruded in you investigations. Mac Taylor smiled as soon as he saw her, assessing her jet black hair and gothic clothes.

"Ms. Scuito," he said, shaking her hand. "I'm Detective Mac Taylor. Special Agent Gibbs asked me to escort you to HQ?"

"Abby," she corrected easily, smiling. "Lead the way, CSI dude."

Mac laughed at the reference and opened the door in the car for her. She stepped in delicately and they drove to the station.

"Abby," McGee greeted her at the computer. Abby stepped right up to him and hugged him.

"It's okay, Tim," she said, sounding choked up. "We'll find Tony, I promise!"

"Um, Abby…" McGee said, turning beet red as he surveyed the amused looks on the CSIs in the room. "I wasn't worried."

Abby stepped back and glared at him. "Well, you should be! He's been kidnapped by a psychopath who beats and murders the underappreciated members of teams! Oh, poor Gibbs must be going through hell right now!"

"That's one way of putting it," Gibbs said behind her. Abby squealed and turned around, wrapping her arms around his neck in a crushing hug.

"We'll get Tony back, bossman," Abby promised. "Let me work my magic."

Gibbs inclined his head towards the computers McGee sat next to. Abby saluted and swiveled on the chair, her fingers flying lightning fast across the keyboard as she hacked easily into the system.

Mac shifted uncomfortably. "You know, we could've just given her the password…"

"Where's the fun in that?" Abby replied, her eyes not leaving the computer screen. She pulled up the torture videos from the case a few months ago.

Each agent and CSI in the room winced as they watched. McGee assisted Abby in pulling up the patterns in the cases.

Less then ten minutes later all members had watched all of the brutal murders, and Abby and McGee stood by, presenting their findings.

"Well," McGee started to say, "every one of these kidnappings occurred within days, so it's pretty obvious that whoever did this had help."

"When we almost caught the guy on the raid," Mac interrupted, "he had five hired guys with him that he killed before we got there."

Abby shook her head. "This guy isn't playing games. He knew that they could be incriminating, but that's not the point."

"Then get to the point, Abs," Gibbs growled.

She held up a finger. "Patience, Gibbs," she said. "Since he escaped and he has struck again, McGee and I assumed he was going to try again with the multiple victims, since he was, after all, successful in that one part."

"We ran "underappreciated through the database," McGee said, taking up the story, "and it looks like he's struck in two other places."

Maps appeared on the screen and he pointed to each one of them. "Shawn Spencer, Santa Barbara, California, and Greg Sanders, Las Vegas."

"They belong to teams?" Mac asked.

Abby nodded. "This Shawn Spencer guy is apparently a psychic consultant for the SBPD, and Greg Sanders is a CSI for the LVPD."

"Each is the youngest members of their team," McGee said quietly.

"But Tony's not the youngest," Ziva said, sounding puzzled. "Why did they take him?"

"Wrong place, wrong time," Mac said grimly. "It looks like they were after Adam and he got in the way, so they had to take him."

"The pattern we've noticed is that this guy seems to take people in law enforcement," Abby said. "Ducky gave me a preliminary profile, and he says that he's probably been in law enforcement before, and he feels betrayed or something, probably because he was the youngest member on the team."

"Before each murder," McGee spoke up, "one of their torture sessions include psychological beat down on the victims."

Mac nodded, remembering the videos from before. "So in other words, they're going to make Adam and the rest of them believe that we don't care about them."

"Just like he was done to when he was on the force," Gibbs said, sounding angry.

"We've got the leaders of the other two teams on video call," Abby said, gesturing to the computer. "They want to talk to you and Detective Mac Taylor."

Gibbs nodded at her and two screens filled the tv. One had a woman with blonde hair standing next to a tall man with black hair, and the other was an older man with graying hair.

"Detective," Grissom said, nodding at Mac. They had met once before.

"Grissom, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Gibbs," Mac said, nodding towards the older man.

"And my name is Chief Karen Vick," the blonde woman said. "This is my Head Detective Carlton Lassiter."

"Have you received any tapes yet?" Gibbs asked, to the point as always.

Lassiter's face darkened. "Yes."

Grissom shook his head no, and Mac confirmed that they hadn't received a tape either.

"The details of our case is plentiful," Grissom said stiffly. "We suggest you come to Las Vegas, since the last crime was here and we suspect that he might've been in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Everyone did a double take. "That would mean that Adam Ross and Shawn Spencer were the only intended targets," Gibbs said.

Grissom nodded. "It looks that way."

"Alright," Chief Vick said. "I'm sending up Lassiter and his partner Juliet O'Harra, and Spencer's partner, Burton Guster."

Lassiter started. "Chief, I don't think that's such a good idea…"

The blonde woman glared at him and he fell silent. Gibbs chuckled.

"I'm taking my CSI's Danny Messer and Sheldon Hawkes," Mac said.

Lindsay and Stella immediately opened their mouths to say something but a glare from Mac cut them off. Each bit her lip angrily and looked at the ground.

Everyone turned to Gibbs, who stared at the screen where the murders had taken place. He sighed. "I'll bring Junior Agent McGee and Officer David."

Abby didn't even try to protest, but she looked disappointed until Gibbs leaned over and whispered, "I need you to help the CSIs here to analyze the videos as soon as they come, and send them to me."

She brightened slightly, then turned and hugged him. "Bring him home, okay?" She said quietly. "I don't care if you have to order him again, just, bring him home."

Gibbs kissed the top of her head. "I promise, Abs," he said.

The video call ended and everyone packed up to leave when one of the techs came running in, two tapes in his hand.

"The tapes arrived, Detective," he told Stella, who'd moved to intercept him. She threw a look at Mac and grabbed the tapes from the tech, shooing him out.

"You sure you want to see this?" she asked Abby, who stood frozen, clutching Gibbs.

Abby squared her shoulders and set her jaw. "I can handle it."

Stella nodded and handed a tape to Gibbs, popping the other in the old VCR that stood hooked up to the tv. The VCR whirred quietly and when the screen came on they gasped in horror at the young man looking back at them.


	4. Tic Tac Toe

Mac dropped everything and stared at his youngest member. Adam blinked blearily at the camera, confused, like he'd been just woken up. As a matter of fact, Mac didn't doubt that he had. Chances were he'd been knocked out just before the tape had been made.

Next to him the agents had stopped, waiting patiently for their turn but standing at attention, their eyes tracking anything that might help them find Adam. Where Adam was, their guy was, and no doubt the others.

"_You should know, Detective Mack Taylor, that whatever happens next is your fault."_

Everyone jumped, not expecting the voice spoken. Adam, apparently, hadn't expected it either, because suddenly his posture was rigid and erect, eyes wide as adrenaline shot through his body. He struggled against the ropes that held him to the chair he was in.

Anger ripped through Mac's body like a drug, making him clench his teeth and fold his fingers into fists. He could see that the video had the same protective reaction in every member of his team, Lindsay in particular looking like she'd rather be there, strangling the perp before anyone else could get to him. Even the agents looked affected, Gibbs stiffening in fury and McGee wincing as if he knew what was coming.

Before those few seconds were over five men appeared out of nowhere, moving too fast for them to make out the faces but repeatedly hitting Adam. He was swarmed from all sides and the only thing they could hear of him was the whimpers he made whenever their fists made contact.

"_You should've paid better attention, Taylor," _the voice continued. _"This is your fault, after all. If it weren't for you Adam probably wouldn't be in this mess."_

The words hit him harder then they should have. Stella put a hand on his shoulder, and it wasn't until then that he noticed how incredibly tense they were. He let out a shaky breath, eyes on the youngest member of his team, fury blurring out the edges of his peripheral vision.

And the video went like that for a long time, each blow leaving Adam breathless and panting for air, sucking in enough only to cry out when he was hit again. By the time it was over his shirt was ripped and blood ran down his chest and arms. Mac's eyes narrowed as he discovered that his face had been left alone, as pinched up from the pain as it was.

All of the men moved back at one time, not facing the camera once. Mac wasn't worried about that—they had faced it at one point or another. One of his lab techs would slow it down enough to grab an i.d.

Adam was left hunched over in the chair, the ropes holding him up. He lifted his head bravely to face the camera. Mac was proud to see the defiance still clear in his pain-filled eyes.

"_Take a good look, Taylor," _the voice whispered. _"This isn't the last you'll hear of me, or poor, young Adam."_

The poor young Adam in question shuddered, and then the screen went black.

Mac took a look around the room at his teammates. Danny was clenching and unclenching his fists. Lindsay had an angry look in her eyes, which, Mac noticed now, had filled and spilled over with tears. Stella was stoic as ever, staring two new holes in the tv screen. Hawkes was rubbing his temples.

The agents looked restless, Gibbs staring now at the tape in his hand like he was afraid to see what's on it. Abby looked even worse, tears ruining the mascara in her eyes as it ran down her face. Mac wasn't sure if it was for Adam or for Tony, but he wasn't about to ask.

Finally he cleared his throat, and everyone looked up at him like soldiers to their commanding officer. The lump in his throat was sure to constrict his talking so Mac cleared it again. No such luck.

"This is hard," he said to everyone in the room. "This isn't going to be easy. But if we're going to get our guys back, we're going to need to work together."

They nodded.

Mac turned to Gibbs. "I know that after this you won't want to see what's—"

"With all due respect, detective," Abby, surprisingly, interrupted. Mac turned to her, noting the obvious fire in her clear dark eyes. "If it's all the same to you, we want to see what's on that tape."

"Abby," Gibbs sighed.

"No," she said emphatically. "Either you watch it with me here or I can go find Tony on my own. Without telling you anything."

She crossed her arms and glared at him, a challenge in her eyes like she wanted him to contradict her. But Gibbs was too smart for that. When Abby set her mind, she always got what she wanted.

He nodded at Mac, who took out the other tape and put in the new one. They watched as the screen flickered and suddenly was filled with Tony.

"Are you saying they're going to murder my son and you're just going to let them?"

"Henry," Chief Vick said, blowing a strand of blonde hair from her forehead. "You know I didn't say that."

The older man crossed his arms. "You might as well have, Karen. Leaving me here is not the answer. You need me, and you know it!"

"Lassiter and O'Harra are perfectly capable of finding Spencer themselves," Vick snapped. "The only thing I'm worried about is you getting in the way of the other investigators because of your pissy, get-out-of-my-way attitude that could cost us not only this killer, but a damn good consultant, too."

"I won't," he protested. "I promise. Look, these guys, whoever the hell they are, their guys are missing too, and I get that. But you know you'll need me. I'm just as good as Shawn without all that psychic crap."

"The answer is no," Karen said, finality ringing in her voice. "Don't ask me again, Henry."

He opened his mouth, but closed it when he saw her glaring. Glaring he left the office, practically slamming her door on the way out. Officers got out of his way as he stormed out of the station.

Karen shook her head and rubbed her temples. Thing's had been going a little more then hectic since Spencer's disappearance, and this new development doesn't help. Lassiter and O'Harra, along with Guster, were already on a plane to Vegas with the tape that they hadn't looked at yet, and it was only a matter of time before Henry disobeys her wishes and went there too.

And it would be legal, because he was a citizen and entitled to go wherever he wished. Karen knew the loophole he would try to take, and she couldn't say no to it, either.

Sighing, she reached for the phone.

"He's _what?" _

Juliet winced as Lassiter's piercing voice woke her from her fitful sleep. She leaned her head up, ears popping as she stretched.

"No, you tell him that he's not allowed—what? Why didn't you stop him? Oh, for crying out loud…"

She eyed the road, and then Lassiter, uneasily as he steered with one hand and yelled into his phone with the other.

"Carlton, you do know it's illegal to drive and talk into a phone at the same time, right?"

He took his ear away from the phone long enough to give her a dirty look and say, "The other Spencer's coming."

"What?" Juliet said, starting to get why he was so upset. "The Chief said she'd take care of him."

"Yeah, well, he's a citizen, O'Harra," he snapped. "Citizens can go wherever the hell they want to, and there's nothing we can do about it. The good news is he'll probably be shadowing us. The bad news is we have to let him."

"Ugh," she groaned, hitting the back of the car seat and startling Gus, who'd been asleep the whole time, out of his slumber.

Lassiter slammed shut the phone so hard it cracked.

Gus rubbed sleep from his eyes and caught Juliet looking at him. He saw Lassiter swearing under his breath and a questioning look swept across his face. "What's wrong with him?"

"Mr. Spencer's on his way," she said miserably.

He groaned and leaned back into the seat, attempting, and failing, to fall asleep again.

Gibbs' eyes immediately narrowed, keen vision tracing the ugly bruise on the side of his face. Other then that particular injury he didn't look hurt, but he knew that was probably going to change in the next few minutes.

As far as Tony went, Gibbs noted, it didn't look like the kidnapping thing was getting to his personality, seeing as he was smirking openly and fitting in a movie reference about the situation every chance he got.

"_He's got spirit, Agent Gibbs," _the voice said, and Tony stiffened visibly, the grin frozen on his face as he stared past the camera.

His boss was startled, too, but the man just gave them another clue. He knew who Gibbs was, so that either meant he knew him personally, or he had good contacts to find out.

"_If you're talking about me," _Tony interrupted whatever he was going to say next, _"you'd be better off kidnapping Ziva. She's got all the spirit and none of the smartass comments."_

Ziva cracked a smile. Out of the corner of his eye Gibbs caught the amused exchange of glances by the two detectives. They were impressed by his act, but Gibbs saw it for what it was: an act. Pride swelled in his chest but he watched the tape like an investigator, not the victim's only parental contact.

When the beatings came Tony took them with grace. Ziva watched as stoically as Stella did, but he could see her hand inching towards the dagger she held strapped to her calf. McGee looked angry, rare for the geeky agent. And Abby, for a peace activist, looked downright murderous.

"_You shouldn't have left Tony go alone, Gibbs," _the voice tsked. _"He wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you."_

"_No," _Tony snarled unexpectedly. Surprised, the men stopped beating him, and Gibbs got a good look at what they'd done.

His jacket had been ripped in at least three places and he had blood soaking the white shirt up like a Shammy. Again, it looked like his face had been left alone, and every angry defiant pore in Tony's body shone clear through his green eyes, alternating at both the camera and the man behind it.

"_It wasn't your fault, boss," _he said, pleading to the camera. _"It was kind of mine for not waking Ziva up. But don't worry boss, I'll get them out of here. They didn't take me halfway across the country for— ach!"_

A blow to the face by a cane cut off what he was going to say, but Gibbs was smiling in pride. Tony had given them a clue, and they knew it.

"_This wouldn't have happened if you weren't so careless," _the voice said. But it didn't sound like his heart was in it anymore. Tony lifted his head to wink at the camera, and it went black.

It was silent for a few moments, and then Mac cleared his throat. "You taught your guys well," he said to Gibbs.

Gibbs shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Tony's been like that even before I met him."

"You did catch that, right?" Ziva demanded, turning to Gibbs. He nodded.

"Halfway across the country," he repeated. "Vegas. That's where the last guy was taken, and that's probably where the rest of them are."

"He's smart, that one," Stella commented. "So, we getting ready to go?"

"You know it," Danny said, swinging down from the table he was in.

Gibbs turned to Abby, who stood hugging herself so hard it looked like she was trying to crush her own ribs. He engulfed her in a hug and kissed her forehead.

"We'll get him back, Abs," he said. "Don't you forget that."

She nodded. "I'll stay here with McGee and process the videos," she said. "All of them. Take Ziva and go to Vegas, and please, _please_ bring him home alive."

"Promise."


	5. It's What I Do

The four men were together, and awake, at last. Now they didn't know what to do about it.

"So," Tony said. "Come here often?"

Shawn snorted, and Greg and Adam gave him incredulous looks.

"How many times you've been kidnapped?" he asked them.

"Three times, I think," Shawn said, smirking, "not counting this one."

"Once," Adam said softly.

"None," Greg muttered. "This is a first for me."

"Oh," Tony said. "Well, I've been kidnapped three times now. I think."

"I would fistbump you," Shawn said, "but my hands are a little tied right now."

The four men snickered, and then fell silent.

"God, I'm bored," Tony complained loudly.

"We know," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "You've told us about five times already."

They fell silent again. After the men had come in with Tony, the last to be taken out, they'd compared stories and decided that they were, for lack of better description, royally screwed.

"This sucks," Shawn moaned, tugging at the ropes. "I'm hungry. How long have we been here?"

Greg shrugged. "About eight or so hours since I woke up. Who knows how long before that?"

"Great," Adam said sarcastically, "we're four cops-"

"Psychic," Shawn put in.

"Agent," Tony added.

Adam glared at them. "We're four men in law enforcement who've all been kidnapped by a psycho killer who takes the youngest members of teams and sends the videos to the leaders, and our team has no idea where we are except for the 'clues' the man gives them."

"How do you know that?" Tony asked, surprised.

"We worked this case a few months ago," Adam replied, sounding miserable. "Four people were taken, tortured on video, and then killed while their bosses got live feed. It sucked. We almost caught him, too."

Shawn made a face. "I hope you didn't tell them that. Now he's going to really hate you."

"I think he already knows," Adam said. "I just so happen to be the youngest member of my team. I was targeted. I think you were, too."

"We established that already," Shawn sighed, leaning his head back in his chair.

"My people will come for me," Tony said confidently. "Gibbs doesn't give up on his people."

Adam barked out a laugh. "Sounds like a swell guy."

"He is," Tony said quietly, staring at the door like it would open and his boss would be there. "He definitely is."

The four fell silent again.

Greg let out a hiss through his teeth as something strained his side. Shawn looked over at him in concern.

"You okay, dude?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he insisted.

"You don't look fine," Tony put in. "Dude, you got it worse then any of us and you know it."

Greg glared at him. "I'm _fine. _Let it go, okay?"

The two had a staring contest, neither of them willing to look away.

"So how're we getting out of this?" Shawn asked finally. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to be here when they decide to send old Lassie-face live feed of my untimely and painful demise."

Tony snorted, turning his head. "Lassie-face?"

Shawn grinned back. "Ducky?"

He blinked. "How did you know...?"

If Shawn's hands weren't tied he would be wagging his fingers to his temple in his signature move. "Psychic."

"Yeah, right," Adam muttered.

"Hey, man, don't diss the spirits," Shawn said, sounding insulted. "They see more then you give them credit for."

"My Nana was psychic," Greg said softly. "She thinks I got the gift."

Shawn's brows rose at him. "Do you?"

He gave a half-shrug. "I don't know. Grissom doesn't seem to think so, though."

"No, they never really do," Shawn said, shaking his head.

"Psychics aren't real," Tony scoffed. "The only psychics I know are frauds."

Shawn looked insulted. "With all due respect, DiNozzo, the only Feds I know are dicks, so I guess we're even."

Tony pursed his lips and nodded. "Yeah, I don't deny that."

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, Mr. I'm Evil and I Like It. How are we supposed to get out of here?"

"Got a phone?" Greg joked.

"Ha ha," Shawn snorted. "I'm serious, you guys. We can't just sit here and wait to be rescued."

"Sure we can," Tony deadpanned.

Shawn glared. "Well, maybe you can, but I'm not too big on the rescuing thing. So if you're not going to escape, I guess I'll just take my leave now..."

He tugged against the ropes again for sarcastic emphasis. "Oh, right. I can't, because I'm _tied to a chair." _

"If it makes you feel better," Tony said, "we're tied here with you."

"Why doesn't that console me?" Adam muttered.

Gibbs got the feeling that Tony would've loved Las Vegas. Too bad he'd been kidnapped and probably isolated from anything even remotely Vegas-like.

For some reason thinking about the younger agent kept his mind off of what could be happening to him right now. Gibbs sighed as got out of the rented Denali, swinging the car keys on his fingers like Tony almost always did.

CSI Danny Messer got out looking sick, followed by CSI Sheldon Hawkes. Gibbs glanced at them absently and hid a smirk, because his driving skills were legendary among his team. Amusingly, McGee seemed to look smug about keeping his lunch in that time, and Ziva, of course, was unaffected.

The detective was the last to step out, stretching his cramped shoulders.

"So this is Vegas," he said rhetorically. Gibbs nodded anyways, confirming the statement.

"Mac!"

They turned as Grissom and a blonde woman hurried towards them from the crime lab. Mac held out his hand to shake Grissom's hand.

"Hello, Gil," he said, and he nodded to the blonde. "Catherine."

"Mac," she acknowledged. "I'm CSI Catherine Willows, assistant supervisor."

Gibbs and his team shook her hand, and the other two CSIs nodded their greetings.

"Welcome to Vegas," Grissom said dryly. "Detective Lassiter, O'Harra, and Spencer's partner Burton Guster have arrived already. We're just waiting on you."

"Nice welcome party," Danny muttered to McGee. Hawkes snickered.

They went into the building where harried CSIs bustled about, each, no doubt, looking for their friend. Gibbs' mouth twitched as he realized that most of the agents in the NCIS building hadn't done that when Tony'd been kidnapped the first time.

It didn't look as if Greg Sanders was underappreciated to him.

The detectives were waiting for them in the break room, along with the other CSIs. Everyone in the room looked tense and on edge. Gibbs wondered if he looked like that too.

"Agent Gibbs," Grissom said, "this is the CSI graveyard shift. Nick Stokes, Sara Sidle, Warrick Brown."

The members in question nodded their greetings.

The tall broad man with the scowl stepped forward to take his had. Gibbs recognized him from the video.

"Head Detective Carlton Lassiter," he said. He nodded to his people. "Junior Detective Juliet O'Harra, Private Detective Burton Guster."

"Just Gus," the African-American muttered. "Everyone calls me Gus."

Gibbs and Taylor introduced their teams and everyone took a seat.

"We thought you'd like to take a look at the tapes we received," Grissom said. "And likewise."

"No problem," Mac said for Gibbs, pulling out the tape from his bag. "They're right here."

As Gibbs re-watched Tony's video he wiped emotion from his face, barely managing to hide the flinches every time he was struck. The others watched with sympathy and frustration; Gibbs knew how they felt.

Shawn's video was next. It was a lot quicker then the other ones, and it was probably because the boy had such a smart mouth it made Tony look tight-lipped. Every chance he got he put in a jibe.

The man took harsher jibes at him, both about his father and his friends and everyone basically involved in his life. Shawn took them all into stride, even when beaten painfully and beyond measure.

Gibbs look over to gauge their reactions: Gus furious, Lassiter stoic, and O'Harra crying, looking like she wanted nothing more then to punch out the tv.

Grissom paused it when Spencer turned at the end, his hazel eyes wide, pained, and defiant. In slow motion his lips formed words, clear to everyone even if Gibbs and Grissom were the only ones who knew enough sign language to read his lips.

_"It's not your fault."_

Oddly enough the words had the opposite effect; Lassiter turned and hit the table with his fist, and he leaned over it, panting as he attempted to get his anger under control. Juliet broke down and crashed to her knees, not quite sobbing, but definitely not okay either. Gus stayed where he was, but his eyes had widened and he stared blankly at the screen, where blackness now stood.

Lassiter sighed and hoisted Juliet up. She was shaking. They stared into each other's eyes for a minute, Lassiter's sympathetic, Juliet's angry. And then he pulled her into a surprised hug and whispered, "I'm sorry."

Juliet was surprised at his change in character but nodded, pushing against his chest and facing the others in the room.

"Let's get on with this," she said, fury on her face.

Grissom nodded, his eyes tightening as it was Greg's turn now. He put in the tape and within moments the youngest member of his team was staring at them.

Not at them, actually. Greg was making it a point to look at the floor and not at the camera. When the man started speaking he hadn't moved, staring at the floor, refusing to make eye contact with any of the members of his team.

_"Smart little guy, isn't he?" _the voice said. _"Oh, that's right-you wouldn't know, now would you? Because Gilbert Grissom could care less about a lowly lab rat." _

Greg visibly flinched, and Gibbs could see Grissom mimic his movement. He wondered if that was true, or just another one of his accusations.

_"And now poor Greggo has to pay the price." _

The men came again, but this time was different. Without warning two of them held Greg to the chair, one of them grabbing a handful of his blonde spiked hair and jerking his head back painfully, exposing his neck.

Grissom's anger was apparent now, but everyone in the room was on the edge of their seat, including Gibbs, their eyes locked on the screen.

Another man took out a knife, a dagger with an elegant looking blade. Greg's eyes were still locked on the floor, but his breathing sped up, and his mouth was moving quickly, forming words but moving too fast for neither Gibbs nor Grissom to read them.

_"You sent him to the crime scene alone," _the voice continued, rising in volume as the action got more and more intense. _"You were the one who sent him in there with a worthless, half-assed, double crossing cop to protect him, a level one CSI, practically a rookie!" _

The man with the knife came closer. Before anyone could blink the blade had ripped into Greg's chest, slicing through his skin. A scream drowned out whatever else the voice was saying, and everyone jumped, eyes boring twelve pairs of holes in the tv screen.

Blood immediately turned his dark blazer darker, and Greg's back arched out of the chair, his eyes squeezed shut. After a millisecond he crashed back, his body going limp as the blood ran down his chest.

Gibbs once again took stock of everyone's reactions. His own agents looked horrified, which was understandable. The CSIs called Sara and Nick had expressions that alternated between furious and mortified. Grissom had sat down hard in the chair. The other CSIs looked sympathetic, and confused, while the cops looked nervous, impatient, and sorrowful.

Greg was still alive, his panting turning into whimpers as the men continued to make shallow cuts throughout his body, mostly on his arms, his chest, and, once, his cheek.

That was where it got interesting. The man who'd cut his cheek stopped immediately but it was too late. Before anyone could figure out what had gone wrong rapid gunfire rose over Greg's whimpers and tore into the man's chest. Greg jumped as he collapsed next to him.

The screen went blank.

Gibbs let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, not knowing what to say.

"What the hell?" Nick demanded.

Yeah, that pretty much summed it up.

Grissom rubbed his eyes. "Why would they change torture tactics?" he asked rhetorically. "Maybe they knew me personally? Or Greg? They wanted something, because he was angry, frustrated."

"Why was Greg staring at the floor?" Sara asked. "Why wouldn't he look at us?"

"And what was he mouthing?" O'Harra put in.

"What's with the knife?" Danny added. "There are plenty of other ways to torture someone. Why that particular thing?"

"And why," Gibbs said, grabbing everyone's attention, "did the killer get so upset when they cut his cheek? What's with the face that's so important?"

No one had an answer to that.

Lassiter had never felt so shaken in his life. It wasn't even that Shawn had been kidnapped, but more so to the way he'd been treated was like... well, as much as he despised the psychic, he'd never wish anything like that upon him.

After the video each team had split into groups, pairing with different partners like this was a retreat exorcize. _Which it wasn't... _

Each of the teams were on edge as it was, and he knew that. So it made sense that they'd split up for the time being.

Lassiter'd been teamed up with a CSI named Danny and an agent named Ziva. Danny reminded him of Shawn, sadly, while Ziva was like the chief and the older Spencer rolled into one and hopped up on ninja mojo.

Scary.

They were assigned the job of processing the scene where CSI Greg Sanders had been kidnapped. So far out in the middle of no where wasn't helping Lassiter's mood in the least.

"So I told him, 'I know you're scared, I'm scared too, okay?'" Danny yapped on.

Lassiter rolled his eyes skyward and caught Ziva's eye. She smiled a little, amused at his discomfort.

Danny was telling them about the one other time Adam had been kidnapped, which wasn't a very accurate description considering he hadn't been taken anywhere, just held hostage at a crime scene. That wasn't the point, because Danny talked about as fast as Shawn did, and that did nothing to boost their partnering relationship.

"And you should've seen his hands, man, they had ground cigarettes into his palms and they looked so painful and ugly that I knew I couldn't let him be the distraction, I knew it, so instead-"

"This is interesting and all," Lassiter interrupted, "but seriously, you sound like Spencer, and I hate Spencer, so could you just drop it, please?"

"You hate Shawn?" Danny repeated, surprised. "'Cause I was under the impression he was like a brother to you."

That permanent scowl deepened on his face. "That would never happen."

Danny thought about that for a minute and shrugged. The psychic's smartass comments could drive anyone insane. He got the feeling it came from years of experience of pissing off the bad guys.

"So is this Shawn Spencer really psychic?" Ziva asked.

Lassiter snorted. "If I could prove otherwise I would. But he's so damn accurate. I don't know how he does it, I swear. And then he goes and places himself in the center of trouble, as always, and it's always me who has to save him. I mean, for the love of all things Holy he couldn't just stay in one place and leave me alone for _once!" _

Danny and Ziva stopped and stared at him.

"So in other words, you miss him," Danny said dryly.

The detective opened his mouth to shoot back a retort. But then he really thought about the statement, growled something unintelligible, and turned away.

The two grinned at each other, but the humorous moment only lasted a second as they surveyed the sober scene.

They followed Lassiter, sighing as they got back to work.

"So," McGee said to Gus, "how'd you become a psychic's partner?"

Gus chuckled as he shuffled through the pictures of Adam's apartment. "It might've helped that we've been best friends since preschool."

"Ah," he said, as if that explained everything.

"Yeah." Gus shot a look at the agent. "What about you? How long have you known Tony?"

It was McGee's turn to smile. "About seven years. He's... something, alright." The half-smile set on his face and he stared at the photo of his friend. "You know he calls me McGeek?"

Gus snorted. "Sounds like Shawn. All he ever does is make up nicknames for me. And when we're in serious danger, he uses my real name."

"Like what nicknames?" McGee smirked.

He rolled his eyes. "Like... like... Holly Wood and Donut Holestien!"

The CSIs accompanying them stopped and stared at him.

"That's creative," Nick said sarcastically.

Gus dropped the pictures and put his chin in his hands. "Tell me about it. All he does is place himself in danger, all the time. One time Lassiter was framed for murder and Shawn ended up being kidnapped by the psycho agent who framed him. Another time we were investigating this one accident with an ice cream truck on the side of the road and Shawn was then shot and kidnapped, and then driven away while being tied up in the trunk of a pick up."

McGee smiled. "Tony got pneumonic plague."

Gus jumped, his eyes wide. "Are you serious? That's been extinct for hundreds of years!"

"Don't I know it," McGee muttered. "He almost died. Tony can't go a year without being framed, kidnapped, blown up, locked in a container, chained to a psycho prisoner, or targeted by an ex-Mossad agent."

Nick and Warrick looked at each other. "I don't really know what to say to that," Nick said sheepishly. "Greg got blown up in his lab."

"In his lab?" Gus repeated. "I didn't think anyone could get that close."

McGee shrugged. "The guy who framed Tony and almost murdered Abby was her assistant for almost a year."

"And besides," Warrick said, "it was an accident. Catherine kind of placed a chemical on a burner that was still on, and..."

"Boom," Gus said softly.

"This isn't good, Gil," Mac muttered as he watched the videos over. "The sound quality is terrible, there's no way we can hear what he's saying."

But Grissom and Gibbs weren't listening, both pairs of eyes focused on Greg's lips as he rapidly spoke, his whispering apparently not loud enough for the speakers to pick up. Their hands were clutching pens tightly and moved across the paper without looking. Mac stopped and studied them, noting how similar and yet completely different they were.

It seemed to be a competition between the two older men, and Mac watched, half amused, as their hands flew across the paper. Both were exceptionally skilled in lip reading, and both apparently wanted to be the first to figure out what the younger man was saying.

At the same time the man sliced the blade into Greg's chest both pens slapped down on the paper simultaneously and they locked eyes, a smirk on both men's faces.

An eyebrow raised in mirror expressions they picked up the papers and began to read aloud.

_"There're four of us, Shawn Spencer from California, Tony DiNozzo from DC, and someone I don't know. We believe Shawn and the other guy were the targets and Tony and I were in the wrong place at the very wrong time. We know we're still in Vegas. And whatever this guy says, Griss, this is not your fault. And you'd better tell the others, too. I know you'll find me. I-" _

Both men flinched as it became obvious why they had ended. In a moment of respect they traded a few sign language signals that Mac didn't understand, and turned to him.

"They're still in Vegas," Grissom said confidently. "We can find them."

"It's possible they might've moved," Mac pointed out, but Gibbs was already shaking his head.

"They've got four victims now," he said. "They're improvising. Now there's too many people involved, so the most likely thing is they're going to attempt to stick to their pattern and clean it up quickly, then get out of there. They wouldn't have moved."

"Not to mention they are way too confident that we can't find them," Grissom added. His eyes took on a sort of furious twinkle. "But they picked the wrong men to mess with."


	6. Walkin' the Lonely Road

**Thanks so much for those of you who reviewed! Enjoy!**

"Alright," Grissom said, sounding almost impatient, as everyone gathered in the conference room. "What have we got?"

"Well it seems pretty clear this guy is good," Nick started, spreading out the crime scene photos. "He's methodical, knows what he's doing, and he definitely knows how to improvise."

"We also think there's only one person who's planning it," Abby said from her video call, "like some kind of whacko criminal mastermind. The other guys are expendable. That's why he never shows up in front of the camera."

"He also, though," Hawkes said, contradicting that statement, "seems to be changing his M.O. Something about Greg set him off, and Greg paid the price for it."

"Greg seems sure they're still in the Vegas area," Grissom said, "and, he wants you guys to know it's not your fault." He locked eyes with each of the gathered members of his team. "Any of yours, no matter what this man says."

It was silent for a few moments as they took that into stride, and then Lassiter spoke up.

"Sanders wasn't lured to the scene," he said. "It looks like he just walked in on the middle of something."

"Now all we have to do is figure out what they were doing," Catherine said.

Grissom cleared his throat. "Gibbs, Mac, and I have looked through our files to see if there is anyone who would have a serious grudge against Greg or me, but so far we've come up empty."

"The blood that Greg sent us in running in CODIS now," Sara said. "And Archie is attempting to clear up those pictures, too."

"In Shawn's video," Juliet said, "he says that the same person who kidnapped him in Santa Barbara was one of the people who beat him. He called him Mask and said he looked way different, so that means that they didn't wear masks again to beat him."

"Speaking of which," Archie Johnson said, swinging into the room, "I was able to slow down the video enough to get a clear pic on two of the men."

"Great," Grissom said, sounding a little more hopeful, "run them; see if you can get a match."

"Already did," Abby said from her tv screen. She beamed at Archie. "That is one smart dude, Gibbs. Anyways, they're hitmen, both of them, wanted in at least eight states and four other countries."

The pictures popped up on a separate screen, one of a man with blonde hair in his thirties and the other of a slightly older man with dark brown hair and mean brown eyes. Their names came back as "Shifty" and "Hookman".

Gus made a face. "Those guys have no imagination."

"I know, right?" Abby responded, smiling a bit at the African American. "I was just about to say that."

"Anything concrete, Abs?" Gibbs interrupted.

The goth girl shook her head. "Sorry Gibbs, no one knows their real names. They're like ghosts."

"Alright," Mac said, sitting back in his chair. "Let me get this straight. We have four guys who've been kidnapped and tortured by a psycho who thinks they're underappreciated because he might be too. We're pretty sure they're in Vegas and that they have seen the guy's face. At some point or another we're going to get a tape with psychological torture, where he tries to turn our guys against us, but we don't know because his M.O. is changing. We think that something in Greg or in Grissom set off his anger. And for some reason he doesn't want his victims' face to be damaged. As far as accomplices go, we have two hit men, two more pictures to clear up, and blood in CODIS."

He looked around the room. "So we got nothing?"

"So far," Gibbs said, but the way he said it was different then the hopelessness he felt. The way he said it made it sound like it didn't matter that they had nothing. He, _they, _would catch the bastard who took their people, and they would do it without evidence if they had to.

It seemed like everyone else agreed.

Before anything else could be discussed, a tech ran into the room. In his hands was a tape.

"Uh-oh," Abby said at the same time. "Gibbs, we have two tapes here…"

Simultaneously Lassiter's cell phone rang.

Everyone looked at each other, eyes wide. "There's no way," Gus said, his voice incredulous. "The timing is… impeccable! There's no way they could get that right!"

"Yeah," Lassiter said as he flipped the phone open. He closed his eyes. "Right. Okay. No problem, Chief. Can you stream it to this computer?"

He held the phone out to Archie, who said the IP address quickly, like he'd memorized it, which he probably had. Abby did the same thing, popping both tapes into separate VCRs and streaming them from the tv to the computer.

Four separate screens popped up. Each member was looking scruffy and rugged, the blood dried on their shirts but still having the same effect as if it had just been done.

Mac paused the other ones and started in order to what was on each screen. The first was Greg, and he sat slumped in the chair, glaring at whoever was behind the screen. The way he was positioned made the members of his team wince; they knew it must be painful where the cuts were.

_"You know why you're here?" _the same methodical voice asked, almost gently.

Greg raised a brow. _"I dumped my spaghetti on the school bully?"_

Nick snickered, while Gus and Gibbs rolled their eyes, figuring he'd been hanging out with both Shawn and Tony to pick up the retort.

_"You're here because nobody cared," _the voice said as if he'd never spoken. _"You're here because Gilbert Grissom sent you to a crime scene by yourself knowing your back up wouldn't help you."_

The CSI stiffened, his eyes narrowing at the man, wondering what he meant by that.

_"Poor, poor Greg," _the voice cooed. _"If it weren't for Grissom, you wouldn't be here."_

_"You're right," _Greg said. Grissom did a double take, but before the hurt could penetrate his heart Greg went on. _"You're right. Without Gris I wouldn't be a CSI. I would still be in the lab running DNA tests. That might be safer, but it sure isn't as fun as doing field work." _He leaned his body as close to the man as he could. _"And I'd take this any day."_

"Tell 'em, Greg," Nick whispered.

The man didn't seem to like his answer very much. Without warning he darted into the picture, back handed him across the face, and darted back out.

Everyone jumped. This had happened in less then three seconds, and by the time it was over Greg's head had been whipped back, hitting the back of the chair with his temple. He slumped, dazed, in the chair, only the ropes holding him up.

Grissom didn't get angry very much. He knew that was exactly what this man was trying to do. It wasn't so much to hurt Greg then to hurt him. That was, after all, why they sent the videos here. The CSI grave shift team didn't give up on their guys easily, and he doubted any of the other people here did, either.

Greg's video ended seconds after the outburst of anger the man had. Lassiter suspected it was because he had messed up, gotten angry. He wondered why it was Greg that made him so out of control, especially when Shawn's mouth was way worse then his.

Speaking of the psychic, his video was next. Shawn was sitting in the chair, not as slumped as Greg was but definitely getting there.

_"You do know how stupid you look, right?"_

_"Stupid?" _Shawn scoffed. _"First of all, don't talk to me about stupid, idiot. You're the one who decided to go postal on law enforcement officers. That's just plain dumb. Stupid doesn't even cut it."_

The man growled. _"You pretend to be psychic to solve people's problems._

_"Pretend?" _He looked wounded. _"Why would I try to scam my clients? The spirits talk to me. It's a gift, and one that is very helpful, thank you very much."_

_"Nobody likes you,"_ the voice went on. _"You're immature and annoying. You have no idea what you're doing. Half the time you walk right into trouble and everyone is always pulling your slack. You use people to do what you want them to do."_

As he spoke the teams noticed the psychic getting more and more tense, like he was being lectured by his father. Shawn probably thought that he was right but didn't want to admit it.

_"Your friends pity you. The only reason Gus is still with you is because you actually make most of the money, believe it or not."_

Gus' reaction was the same as Shawn's in the video. Both spat out a swear words, but Shawn continued from there.

_"Gus is the greatest friend there ever was, and don't you _dare_ say anything that might make him think otherwise," _Shawn growled.

The man chuckled. _"That's what you think. I'd bet Gus is glad to get rid of you. Heaven knows Lassiter is, and Jules… poor Jules has been stuck with you for four years. Four, Shawn, and nobody deserves that."_

_"Don't call her that," _Shawn said, his voice taking an even colder tone to it, sounding icy. _"Only I can call her that."_

And he was right.

_"You think you're so good at what you do," _the voice continued. _"You think you can get away with anything. You put everyone you love in danger. It was only a few months ago when your girlfriend was almost killed, wasn't it?"_

_"Leave them out of this!" _Shawn exploded.

Everyone leaned back, blinking as they watched the cool, collected psychic finally lose his temper.

_"You son of a bitch, leave them out," _he said. _"They know me, they love me, they're all I got left. You can do whatever you want to me but they will always, _always _be my friends, and my family, and there is nothing you can do about it."_

It was silent for a moment as Shawn panted after his outburst, glaring at the man behind the camera. Then the screen went black.

Juliet let out a long breath.

"That was… enlightening…" Mac said carefully, gauging Shawn's friends' reactions.

Lassiter hit the table and stalked out of the room. Gus uncurled the fingers he had clenched into a fist and put his face in his hands. The only thing Juliet did was take yet another deep breath, attempting to look professional and failing.

After all of that Gibbs and Mac weren't sure they wanted to see what the video had to offer.

"Are they okay?" Abby asked from her screen. Gibbs looked at her and stepped back to show Gus and Juliet still trying to get a hold of themselves.

"I don't think any of us are fine, Abby," Gus said quietly. "Especially after that."

"Sorry," she whispered.

He shook his head and tried a small smile. "We're fine. It's Shawn I'm worried about."

"Adam," Hawkes breathed.

Mac knew what he meant. Adam wasn't like Shawn and Tony, not even like Greg. If this was going to affect anyone worse, it would be Adam.

But there wasn't much they could do about it, because his video was up next.

The CSI looked tired, like he wanted nothing more then to go to sleep and wake up and have this be one really big, really bad nightmare.

_"Your boss is an idiot," _the voice informed Adam calmly.

Adam sighed. _"Mac isn't an idiot."_

_"No?" _The man chuckled a bit. _"He should've never let you go home. Funny how that works, isn't it? If he made you stay you would've been processing evidence until the rest of the morning. It would've been hell, but definitely better then this."_

_"That doesn't make him stupid."_

_"It makes him stupid to challenge me," _the voice sneered. _"I've been tracking you for a while now, Adam. You never stood a chance. But you might've, if Mac would've turned down this one case. You would be safe. And he wouldn't be stupid."_

They were silent as Adam took that in.

_"So, your father abused you as a kid, right?"_

Adam's head snapped up, his eyes wide as fear snaked its way into his emotions. _"What?"_

"No," Mac said under his breath.

_"What did he do? Did he touch you? Hit you? Say mean things?"_

_"What does that have to do with anything?"_

Everyone could hear the shake in his voice.

_"I'd bet he told you that your dreams were never going to come true. I bet he told you you were a geek, and stupid, and you would be poor for the rest of your life."_

_"Shut up!"_

_"So I suppose Mac does too, then, right?"_

Adam opened his eyes for a moment. _"W—what?"_

_"In certain ways, he beats down your dreams. Just like your father. I'd bet the others do, too."_

_"That's not true."_

_"Isn't it?"_

_"You're a liar," _Adam spat, turning away. Any more prodding from the man resulted in dirty looks. He was done.

The screen went black.

Danny turned and punched the wall, then jumped back, shaking his hand as his knuckled burned.

Gibbs looked at his agents, who were tense and on edge as they waited for Tony's turn. Each were wondering what the man would say about them, trying to brace themselves. Gibbs didn't think it would work.

As Tony flickered to life on the screen, yawning a bit and looking completely relaxed despite the fact that he was tied to a chair. His act didn't fool anyone.

_"So, Agent DiNozzo," _the voice started.

_"That's Special Agent to you,"_ Tony corrected. A quick smile flashed across his face. _"Sorry, that line never gets old."_

Gibbs rolled his eyes.

_"Special Agent DiNozzo," _the man said, correcting himself. _"What exactly do you do for the team?"_

Tony thought for a moment. _"I keep them laughing. I find quick leads in places they wouldn't dream of looking. I'm one of the best under cover agents ever to come to NCIS. Uh…"_

_"And would you say people appreciate you?"_

_"Oh, no," _Tony said, laughing. _"I see what you're trying to do. See, Adam told us about this case and despite what you think, I am very well loved."_

_"You sure about that, Agent DiNozzo?" _the voice chuckled. _"Your boss slaps you on the head like an owner to a dog. That doesn't seem like appreciation to me."_

_"That's just his way of showing he cares," _Tony said, but the smile had frozen on his face. The atmosphere turned icy.

_"He treats you like you're five," _the man said. _"Are you five, Agent DiNozzo?"_

_"Special Agent," _Tony snapped. _"Does it look like I'm five, Mr. Sixty three?"_

Something flew across the room and hit Tony in a chest. He let out a sharp cry of pain as it hit one of the beaten parts and slid into his lap, where he was doubled over as he fought to breathe.

_"Say nothing," _the man hissed.

Gibbs didn't like it. But it was good, what Tony was doing. Anything more would be great.

_"Okay, so you're touchy on your age," _Tony shrugged. "Don't worry, most men are when you're old and wrinkly."

Gibbs thought he was going to hit him again, but instead the man laughed.

_"Your teammates appreciate that smart mouth of yours? And I'm sure they've tried to get back at you at some point or another. You've never been excluded from team activities?"_

Tony's face went dark for a minute, and Gibbs could pick out which specific time he'd been left out. A flash of guilt ripped through his chest.

_"What about that time you saved your boss and his friend from drowning in that car? Did he even say thank you?"_

No. Gibbs never had.

_"And what about your father? You had pneumonic plague, and he never came. He was too busy with work, and didn't have time for poor Agent DiNozzo, dying from an extinct disease."_

_"He didn't know," _he protested.

_"He might've," _the voice countered, _"if Gibbs had told him. Did you ever think that your boss might not actually like you enough to keep you around?"_

Tony remained silent, glaring up at the man. He did the same thing Adam did, and was equally successful. After a few more moments of prodding, the screen went blank.

"You okay?"

Greg snorted. "No."

"Oh," Shawn said, leaning back against the chair. "Me neither."

"Me neither," Adam said pitifully.

"Well, join the club," Tony muttered.

"What kind of torture was that?" Shawn demanded after a minute of silence. "I've never been that riled up before. Not even Yang. Not even Yin."

"I don't think I've ever hurt that bad," Adam muttered. "That was so hard… he seemed to know everything about me!"

"He did," Tony pointed out. "He knew about events that nobody should've known about. I mean, the fact that I had plague was classified to keep from spreading world wide panic."

"You had plague?" the other four repeated in unison.

"I don't know if I should be proud of that," he replied under his breath. "But yeah. And it hurt. Don't try that at home, kiddies."

"Not planning on it," Shawn said, sighing. "So what does that tell us?"

They shrugged. "You're the psychic." Tony pointed out, sounding slightly sarcastic.

Shawn glared at him. "Well if you hadn't noticed, being kidnapped seems to mess with the spirits' mood. I haven't heard a peep from them since I got here."

"So I guess you need to use that detective part of your brain," Greg suggested. "We know that this guy has some major issues with me. Why?"

"Good question," Adam said. "Even though you weren't targeted, something in him made him so pissed off he'd go to some serious lengths to make sure your boss suffered."

"What I want to know," Tony said dramatically, "is what is it he doesn't like?"

"And is it me, or Grissom?" Greg wondered.

"How the hell are we getting out of here?" Adam asked. "The psychological torture is over. The next time they come in here, somebody's dying."

They fell silent as the four men looked at each other. The countdown for survival started now. Any one of them could be next.


	7. Could Really Use a Wish Right Now

**Thanks so much for your comments! I'm so glad you guys like it. Here's the next chapter. Enjoy!**

"Carlton?"

Lassiter looked up at his partner and then ducked his head. Juliet sighed and walked out onto the balcony with him. The night had passed, and it was well into the morning, which made Lassiter "see" the sky getting lighter, even though it was still pitch black.

Not quite pitch black, actually; this was Vegas, after all. The lights shone bright on the Strip, and Lassiter found himself imagining what Spencer would say if he were here. Probably something unnecessary and annoying, as usual.

"You alright?" Juliet asked and she leaned against the railing. She wasn't looking directly at him, and Lassiter appreciated that.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice a little husky. "About earlier, I mean. I didn't mean to be such a jerk—"

"It's fine," she interrupted, sounding shy. "I let my feelings get in the way of the investigation. To tell you the truth, I have no idea why the Chief let us on this case."

"Me too," Lassiter admitted after a second of silence. "I was… worried… about Spencer." The word came out wrong and he knew it. Juliet sent him an amused look. He scowled. "I mean, this guy is bad news, O'Harra. The CSI New York team is supposed to be one of the best. If they couldn't catch him…"

"I know what you mean," she said, nodding. "It's this overwhelming feeling that you can't do anything about what he's going through. And when you see him on that screen, trying to look all macho and brave, but you can see he's still bleeding…"

A shudder ran through her body. Lassiter knew how she felt. He didn't, however, know what to do to make her feel better, so instead he nodded a silent acknowledgement, and they both lapsed into silence, staring out into the Nevada night.

"There is too much evidence to process," Nick moaned, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. "I feel like a computer about to overload."

"I feel like my brain's about to overload," Gus muttered. "This is way too much stuff to process, even with all of the extra help."

"I hear you, Gus," Abby said from her video. "And I feel sorry for you. I could really go for a Caf-Pow right about now."

"Caf-what?"

Abby looked insulted. "Only the greatest caffine beverage since Mt. Dew!"

"Right," Gus said, smiling a little in spite himself, "how could I forget?"

Her face brightened. "I'll just ask Don to get me one!"

Mac's head came up and he regarded the goth curiously. "You've met Flack?"

"Oh, yes," Abby said, fluttering her eyelashes a little. "I gotta say, Mac, you sure have hot cops here in the NYC."

"I heard that," Danny called from the lab.

Abby rolled her eyes and sighed. "If Tony were here, he would've said that exact same thing."

"If Greg were here," Nick commented, "he'd make some really bad sexual joke."

Gus snorted. "If Shawn were here, he'd find a way to combine all of those and turn it into something so ridiculous it just happens to be funny."

Each member smiled a bit, staring up and remembering their friends. And then reality caught up with them, and Nick groaned again,

"This is gonna take forever."

Henry didn't normally panic. Well, if the situation involved Shawn, then it was time to panic. Considering, now, that Shawn had been kidnapped by a sociopath who apparently liked to play mind games with superiors, it was good to freak out a little.

Still, Henry Spencer kept his cool, on the outside at least. For appearance's sakes. And for his own reassurances.

Alone in a city he'd never been in should've fazed Henry, but this was Vegas and completely unfamiliar territory to a cop like him. Not that he'd admit it to anyone any time soon. No, Henry Spencer was a chameleon, adapting to whatever situation he found himself in.

So Henry did what he did best, and watched the police station carefully. He'd been in the same place for hours, and it was definitely doing a number on his back. It never failed to amaze, or please, him how incredibly stupid and blind some cops were, considering he'd been listening in on their conversations and they'd never even noticed they were being bugged.

Actually, they didn't have reason to, but that was partially Lassiter's fault. He was, after all, the one wearing the bug that Henry'd planted on him, and if he hadn't noticed it was on him yet then he wasn't as good a cop as he thought he was.

Henry winced, his conscience mentally laying a guilt trip on him for the insult. He scowled, putting the binocular eyepieces to his eyes again. Lassiter and O'Harra were still out on the balcony, and he could see snippets of other cops moving around in the station. As far as he could tell they'd been busy processing evidence with the CSIs, and it didn't look like it was going so well.

It didn't sound like it, either. As far as Henry could pick up previously, they'd gotten another tape. A psychological tape. The very thought of it made his stomach churn. Before Lassiter and O'Harra got all weepy and left Henry could hear everything, see some things, and stay well hidden in the process.

He was still simmering on that. Karen knew damn well that he could handle himself, that just because one of the victims, and Shawn was a victim, whether he liked it or not, was his son. Henry was a cop like everyone else. He knew the stakes, and he could take them. Anything to get Shawn home.

From what the cops, and agents, he supposed, had gathered it seemed like Shawn and the others were somewhere in the desert, which was bad because they were in Nevada and right smack in the middle of desert wherever they went. The good news was that they suspected it would be close to where that one CSI was taken, Craig or something like that. Now that Henry had a place in mind he could leave this incredibly cramped position and go look for his son.

That was the plan, anyways. And then the cops got the next tape. It didn't sound like it was going too good. Henry knew how they felt. After all, the man holding Shawn had taken a shot to him. He'd never seen his boy so riled up. And he was glad he didn't have to, for once.

His specs spotted Lassiter and O'Harra, Jules, as Shawn liked to call her, going back inside, probably to help with the processing again. As they walked towards the rest of the teams the bug started transmitting again.

_"We've got a timeline set down," _one of the agents told Lassiter. _"We're guessing that they went for Shawn first with three guys, here at ten fifteen."_

_"That's when the witnesses said they heard Shawn screaming."_

Henry winced, trying to shake the mental image forming in his head.

_"After that they came here, probably drove, to "eliminate" O'Riley, which we're still trying to figure out, and picked up Sanders. That was around seven this morning. Few hours ago, around one thirty, two guys show up at Ross' and pick him up, when Tony gets in the way and they take him." _There was a brief pause. _"Average, our guys have been missing for twenty-seven hours."_

_"We're looking for at least six people," _a female voice added. Henry thought it was the creepy chick with the knife strapped to her arm under the sleeve. _"The man behind all of this still remains unknown. What we need to find out is where he is keeping our people and why Greg provoked such a strong reaction in him."_

"Hallelujah," Henry muttered, stretching a little. He rocked back on his heels and stood quietly, cracking his knuckles and back and neck. Packing up his gear as quietly as he could he returned to his rental car and pulled out of the parking lot.

The ear piece was still in his ear but the voices cut in and out as he got out of range. Henry pulled the piece out and set it on the passenger seat of the car. Where he was going was sketchy but he caught the address from the CSI supervisor and it shouldn't be that hard to find. All he could do was hope the cops had opened it again for public grounding. He needed to get a look at Sander's crime scene.

"Forty-three bottles of beer on the wall," Tony sighed, rolling his head to the side. "Forty-two bottles of beer on the wall, forty-two bottles of beer—"

"Oh, my God," Greg moaned. "Dude, shut the hell up!"

"You let him go to frickin' forty-two?" Shawn demanded.

"I didn't hear you telling him to be quiet!"

"My head hurts," Adam said, sounding pitiful.

"Oh, come on," Tony scoffed at the others. "You guys can't tell me you're not bored to tears."

"We are, trust me," Greg shot back, "but not enough to drive each other crazy."

"I'm not driving you crazy!"

They turned and shot him dirty looks. Tony bit his lip to keep from laughing and shrugged. "Okay, yeah, a little."

"Dude, we're going to die," Shawn growled. "Can I at least spend my final minutes of life in peace?"

"I'm not getting turned into pulled pork," Adam said firmly. "Forget it. I've seen what this guy can do, and that's not going to be me. I'm getting out of here, and if you guys aren't coming with me, it's your freaking loss, man."

The four men stared at him.

"How?" Greg challenged. "From what I remember, this place is a maze. It must've been some kind of factory or something, because it's huge and smells like burnt rubber."

"If we could just tell our teams," Shawn said, "they'd know where to find us and save us."

"How are you supposed to do that, hotshot?" Tony asked sarcastically. "Last time I checked we had our last contact with our guys. Next time isn't a torture session, kiddies. This is real. Next time we're dead."

"Don't talk like that," Adam said. "We can make it. We've made it out of worse."

"Really?" Shawn said incredulously. "Because the worst thing I'd ever had was being two feet from a bomb and a serial killer with a dead man's switch. This is way, way worse."

"Look, we can bicker like girls when we get out of here," Adam said, looking from each man to the next. "First we need a plan."

Shawn smirked. "How's this for a plan?" He raised both arms from their bonds, the ropes slipping off his wrists, and stood.

The others gawked at him. "What the hell, Spencer?" Tony whisper-yelled. "Why didn't you show us that before?"

"How did you do that?" Greg hissed. "Show me so I can get out of here."

"So we all can get out of here," Adam corrected.

Shawn lifted his palm, and a pocket knife rolled from his finger and landed in Tony's lap. The agent scowled.

"That's so not fair."

"It so is," Shawn smirked. "Here." He turned and slashed through the ropes holding Tony to the chair and then the ones around his wrists. Soon they were all free, rubbing their wrists and surveying the room.

"You alright?" Adam murmured to Greg, who was leaning heavily on the chair.

"I'm fine," Greg said through gritted teeth. "I wish you would stop asking me that."

Adam held his hands up in surrender. "Whatever dude. Just checking. That guy really doesn't like you very much."

"Tell me about it," Greg muttered.

"Did anyone really get a look at the dude's face," Tony asked from the door as he searched it for weak points.

They all shook their heads.

"He was in the shadows the whole time," Greg offered. "Like some Bruce Wayne wannabe."

"I only saw him for a second," Tony muttered, rubbing his jaw, "when he smacked me. Tall, black hair, hawk eyes—"

"Hawk eyes?" Greg repeated. "What—who says that?"

Shawn's hand rose, and Adam pulled it down, shaking his head.

"You know," Tony said, gesturing towards his own eyes. "Beady, black, scrutinizing like your old kindergarten teacher used to do when she thought you were up to something."

"Normally I was up to something," Shawn said, sounding thoughtful. "But I see what you mean."

"Doesn't sound familiar," Adam said. Greg shook his head in agreement.

"Whatever," Tony said. "Doesn't matter who took us. Not yet anyways. What matters is that we get out of here and live."

"Living would be nice," Shawn agreed.

Suddenly the door rattled, and everyone froze. Before they could scramble back to their chairs two men came in and pushed through the crowd.

It was all over in a second. Shawn stepped forward, seeing the open door, and reached for it. Something white hot and excruciatingly painful ripped into his shoulder from behind and Shawn dropped like a rock, cringing on the floor.

Each man ended up like that. Adam and Shawn had passed into unconsciousness while Tony and Greg stayed awake, teeth clenched, both curled into the fetal position.

"Him," the familiar, dark voice said, and the men grabbed Greg by his forearms and pushed him to his feet.

The tingly feeling was starting to fade, and Greg along with it, but the men didn't allow it. They shook him awake and pulled him out the door, leaving Tony to watch as his newfound friend kicked and screamed as much as his weak, Tazered body could. The door shut and locked behind them with a click of finality and Tony succumbed to the darkness yet again.

_I can't believe they Tazed me._

Grissom was tired. He rubbed his face and suppressed the yawn that threatened to come with it. As he watched his people bustle about the lab, working with the strangers, he couldn't help but feel frustrated that it was his guy missing out on this experience. _Greg would've loved this…_

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing and he flipped it open, his eyes blearily passing over the caller i.d. and pushed it against his ear.

"Grissom."

_"Check your email_," a familiar voice said.

Grissom sat up abruptly, his eyes going wide. Catherine passed and noticed the look of panic in his eyes as he waved Archie and McGee over to his computer.

"Who is this?" he asked, his voice amazingly calm considering the circumstances.

By then everyone had stopped and stared at him. He waved them over too, his finger flying across the keyboard of the PC as he logged into his email.

_"Who I am is none of your concern,"_ the man said harshly.

"Alright," Grissom said, "what have you done to my people?"

There it was, at the top of his mass of old emails, bolded. The address was unknown and the subject was, of course, Greg Sanders.

_"Nothing much to him yet," _the man said, chuckling slightly, enjoying his new game.

Grissom's eyes hardened as he prepared to click on the link. "That's not what I asked."

_"Ah, yes, you're wondering about the others I took. Did not take you very long, Grissom."_

"No, I had help," he replied, waiting as the page loaded.

_"I see, and do you understand why I hate you so?"_

"Not… quite…" Grissom murmured. "I don't know what it is you think I've done."

_"Oh, no, Grissom," _the voice tsked, _"not you. Definitely not you. Actually, it's what I did. You, I suppose, were only doing your job."_

"I don't understand," Grissom said, shooting a look at Archie. The tech was biting his lip, looking frustrated.

_"You will. Have you checked your email yet?"_

"It's loading," Grissom said, sarcasm edging into his voice. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

_"No inconvenience," _the voice said, back to chuckling again. _"Just tell me when it comes up. I shall be on the line. And don't bother tracking me. It would be frutile."_

Archie shook his head at Grissom, and the older man sighed, staring at the screen. The video file was taking forever to load, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to know what was—

"Oh, my God," Sara said, her hand flying to her mouth.

Greg looked terrible since the last time they'd seen him. His face was pale and tense, like he expected at any moment to either pass out or make a run for it. His white shirt was officially red, and none of the teams there liked the color change. But that wasn't what they were upset about.

The CSI was laying on a table, his arms stretched above his head and cuffed together, then to one of the legs. His ankles were bound the same. He was blindfolded and thrashing, straining his wounds and tearing the fragile scabs on his chest and sides.

A man was standing above him. No one could see his face as it was hidden by shadows, but it clear to everyone he was talking on the phone, talking to Grissom.

"What did you do to him?" Nick breathed,

"Nothing at all," the man spoke from the video through the phone, to Grissom and the rest of the teams.

"Let me rephrase that," the younger man growled, "what did you have your men do to him?"

"He's fine," the man said, lifting a hand and placing it on Greg's torso. The CSI froze, his entire body going tense and on edge.

"Get your hands off of him," Grissom ordered, his voice dangerously low.

The man laughed, raising his hand again. Greg's body went limp and his breathing picked up again.

"I figured you wanted to say goodbye," the man said, "even though you probably won't even miss him when he's gone."

Grissom didn't take the bait, waiting as he watched the man place the phone by Greg's ear.

"Greg?"

"Gris?"

The younger man relaxed a little on the table. "Man, it's really good to hear your voice."

"Yeah, you too," Grissom sighed. "Look, whatever he tells you, you're irreplaceable. You know that, right?"

"I know, Gris," Greg said. "You'll find me. How many factories are in the middle of the—ow!"

Grissom winced as the man's hand struck Greg's solar plexus like lightning, leaving the CSI gasping for breath.

"You need to teach your CSI some manners," the man hissed. Greg slumped back against the table.

"Please, don't do this to him," Grissom said, closing his eyes and then opening them again. "He doesn't deserve this. Why do you hate him so much?"

"It's his fault," the man yelled. "It's his! And yours! It both of yours she's dead, and yours that I landed in prison. If you would've just noticed me, Grissom. I was always right there, under your nose. I was the youngest, and I was a genius. And what happens?"

He kicked the table. "This stupid, perky geek not only takes my position, but he graduates to CSI?"

Grissom's eyes widened. "Montgomery?"

"Oh, so now you remember," Montgomery spat. "It's a little late for that, Grissom. Now you'll get to watch your CSI die in the most painful way possible."

A man handed him a needle, and he smiled at the camera, smirking a bit. Montgomery leaned down and whispered in Greg's ear, and the younger man lashed out with his head, smacking it hard on his nose. Blood spurted out of the wound and Montgomery reeled his head back, screeching so loud the whole room could hear it.

A tired smirk flickered on Greg's face. Grissom gripped the edge of the desk, watching as Montgomery grabbed Greg's right arm, found a vein, and emptied the contents into his body.

"No!" everyone yelled at once.

Greg froze, his back arching for a split second, and then his body thrashed against the cuffs, twisting. Montgomery grinned at the camera like it was the most fun he'd had in a long time and placed the phone by Greg's head.

The screams echoed through the room. Sara turned and smashed into Gus, who held her as she sobbed into his shoulder. Nick's hands clenched and unclenched as he glared daggers through the screen. Warrick held Catherine as she squeezed his chest, unwilling to watch but unable to look away. Gibbs and McGee looked away while Ziva fingered the knife she kept strapped to her forearm.

All hallway activity stopped and the entire station stared at the lab room, watching the scene with frustrated, sad, hurt eyes.

Grissom screamed into the phone, "You son of a bitch! What did you give him? Tell me!"

But the man couldn't hear him, and Greg could. Grissom saw his head turn to the phone.

"G-G-Griss," he stuttered.

"Greg," Grissom said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. "We're coming for you. Hold on, alright? We'll get to you!"

"Hurts," Greg ground out, tears staining the dark fabric of the blindfold and turning it darker.

"I know, buddy, I know," Grissom said soothingly. "Don't worry, we'll get you out of there, alright? Okay, what do you feel?"

"Blood, pumping," Greg whispered, his body going limp again. "Burns. Like acid. Probably snake venom."

Montgomery laughed in the video and started clapping. He took the phone from Greg and said, "You taught your boy well, Grissom. And you'd better hurry with that promise you made. That's venom from a pit viper, one of the most feared snakes in the world. This particular venom removes clotting from your blood after running through your entire body and wrecking havoc. If you don't get here in time with the antidote, poor Greg's going to bleed out through those injuries."

"No," Grissom said, watching as tremors rocked Greg's body again and again, leaving him whimpering from the pain. His side began to bleed again, and then his chest, and then the cut on his face.

"This really is your fault this time, Grissom," Montgomery said. With a nod at the camera he flipped the phone shut.

Grissom could only watch now as his youngest member bled out.


	8. Burnin' Up

**Thanks so much for your lovely reviews! Almost there, everyone. Enjoy!**

"Who's Montgomery?" Gibbs asked after a brief silence.

Grissom rubbed his face. "Gerald. Gerald Montgomery was a CSI lab tech. He actually used to have Greg's job. For a long while it was looking like he'd turn out to be one of the best I could ever ask for."

"He was on his way to becoming a CSI," Catherine added. "Montgomery was a favorite."

"What happened?" Gus asked quietly.

"Greg happened," Grissom said, sighing. "Greg came and immediately noticed something about Montgomery that no one else noticed. Montgomery was getting paid more then he should've been. Before Greg'd even become a lab tech he looked into it, and found… one of Montgomery's victims."

"Montgomery was a mercenary," Warrick said, coming in. "Greg saw it, took it to Grissom, and when Grissom confronted him about it he took one of his fellow lab techs hostage and killed her in cold blood."

Grissom nodded to a picture on the wall. Everyone turned to look at the pretty young redhead with an easy smile and sparkling blue eyes.

"After that, I fired him and Greg got his job." Grissom said, sighing.

There was a long pause as everyone watched Greg strain against the table.

"Archie?" Grissom asked, not taking his eyes off of the suffering CSI.

"Sorry, Grissom," the Asian said apologetically. "He's re-routing the IP address every twenty seconds. The guy's good. I can't get a lock on him."

"I might," McGee offered. "Normally with this type of thing they have a loop and not someone manually re-routing the entire system. It would take too long. Hopefully, since this is sort of short notice, the list won't be too long and we can track down the loop."

"What good would that do?" Gus asked.

"We know they're in Vegas somewhere," McGee explained. "Whichever pops up closest here should be the one they're using. They have to have theirs in the loop or it wouldn't work."

"How long will this take?" Gibbs said sharply.

McGee looked at Archie, who was frowning. The A/V tech looked thoughtful. "Maybe a few hours. It depends on how long the loop is."

"Greg doesn't have a few hours," Mac cut in. "With those injuries he'd be lucky if he even gets an hour."

"Right," McGee said, nodding. "I'll get started." He nodded towards Archie and got out his own laptop.

"Get someone on an antidote," Grissom ordered. "Pit Viper. We can make it in time, but we need to keep him from bleeding out, and we need the medication."

"On it," Hawkes said, nodding to Gus.

"Greg said that he was in a factory," Ziva pointed out.

"And that it was in the middle of the desert," Danny added.

"He must've gotten a look outside," Catherine mused. "Can someone pull up a map for Nevada?"

Nick came in then, waving a file in his hand. "I figured out why they killed O'Riley," he announced, excitement popping the southern accent in his voice. He slapped the file on the shiny table. "He was moonlighting."

"He was what now?" Danny prodded.

"Moonlighting, free lancing, killer for hire, O'Riley was a bad cop. He was one of the hired guns that Montgomery failed to kill that day."

"So they found him and finished the job," Sara murmured.

"Exactly."

"Here's the map," Catherine said, pulling up a map on the tv screen. "This is the only desert in the surrounding Las Vegas area."

"Run factories on it," Gibbs said.

"Been there, done that," Catherine confirmed, and three red dots appeared, spread on the map. "These are the three that showed up."

"Is there any way to know for sure which one Montgomery's holding out guys in?" Mac asked.

"Until we get that loop," Catherine said, "we're stuck."

"I'm not waiting," Grissom said, grabbing his keys. "We'll send everyone available to those three locations. Whichever Greg, and the rest of them, are being held in, we'll be ready."

Everyone looked at each other, and ran after him.

Henry was way ahead of them.

Actually, he'd been to the pharmacy and picked up the antidote, too, after hearing how bad the young CSI had been injured. He figured he'd need it if he was going to get to the factory first.

As Henry sped to the factory he knew the men were being held in (he looked it up and saw that this was the only one with wireless internet access—pretty stupid in on the criminal's part) he flipped out his cell phone and sent a text to Lassiter. Whether or not the detective knew he was in town, he needed back up. There was no way he could save everyone and catch Montgomery at the same time.

Suddenly Henry was glad he stuck around to listen a little more.

The factory was a twenty minute drive. By then Sanders would be in serious, possibly even critical condition, and although Henry was more concerned about his own son, he wasn't a man to let the weak suffer. Or die, for that matter.

Henry fingered the needle in his palm, hoping to God he wouldn't have to use it on his son. He doubted it. Hopefully he'd get there before anything else could happen.

Now, Henry Spencer was a retired cop, but that didn't mean he disregarded the rules of the force. He knew he wouldn't be able to save the hostages—he winced, referring to his son as such—and catch the bad guy at the same time. Especially by himself.

If he could get to Sanders without them noticing he might have a chance. It was definitely possible, even if he didn't like the idea yet.

That would be his plan then. Henry relaxed against the seat as he sped down the Vegas highway, the road flying past the rental car.

Greg had never been in so much pain in his life.

Montgomery had left a while ago, but Greg hadn't even heard him leave. He\ longed to curl himself into ball, clutch his sides as they burned uncontrollably, and strained against the handcuffs.

If he had to suffer anymore with the poison in his blood he thought he'd pass out. Whimpers escaped his lips as he struggled to pull his arms to his sides. The good news, the scientist in him tried to assure him, was that he was on his back, which would give him some extra time so he wouldn't bleed out.

Through the haze he guessed he had maybe another thirty minutes. But that might've been him being optimistic.

Greg hated that his boss had to see him like this. From the way Montgomery was talking it was pretty obvious that he had a camera on him. This was the live feed Adam had promised. Greg wondered if the rest of his teammates were there.

Well, apparently Grissom had found the rest of the captives' teams, from what Montgomery said on the phone. Greg didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Chances were they'd be more motivated to find them, but they'd all want jurisdiction. And Greg knew how stubborn Feds could be.

The pain was starting to fade, but it might've just been his body going into shock. His eyelids fluttered under the blindfold, trying to close and not being able to. Every muscle in his body locked, stretched, tingled and churned but Greg didn't feel any of it. Before his eyes could close his lips moved, forming slurred words in case Grissom was watching, so he could read his lips again, know how sorry he was that he screwed up so bad.

And then his eyes slipped closed and Greg faded into the darkness.

Shawn woke with a moan, holding his head tightly. Darkness eased the pain in his temples as his eyes flittered open.

As his senses returned he realized that he was still on the floor in the same prone position the men had left him in. He pushed himself off the cement floor, his palms pressing against the cool rock, and tried his best not to through up.

"Oh, my God," he moaned. "What- did they just Taze me with a stun gun?"

No one answered. Shawn hadn't expected them to, for if he was knocked unconscious the same would most likely had befallen on his newfound friends.

Speaking of which... Shawn looked around, searching for Greg, Tony, and Adam. Two figures outlined in the gloom, and as Shawn crawled closer he recognized the curly hair of Adam and Tony's expensive looking (but probably cheap) diver's watch.

Neither were awake, but that wasn't what worried him. Where was Greg?

Shawn groped a hand out to find the wall and hoisted himself up, trying to work the tingles out of his body. A few seconds later Tony groaned loudly and flipped onto his stomach, holding his head gingerly.

"You up, Butch?" Shawn deadpanned.

"Shut up," Tony mumbled. "My head hurts too much to come up with a comeback to that."

He chuckled lightly and then got serious. "They took Greg."

Tony's head shot up, a look of quiet panic in his eyes. "Have you seen him?"

"Not since I woke up a few minutes ago," Shawn grumbled. "They freaking Tazed us."

"I know," Tony said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I felt it. Saw them take Greg, too. There wasn't much I could do." He sounded defensive, like he was trying to convinced Shawn of his innocence.

Shawn thought he might've been trying to convince himself. He knew the feeling.

"Adam's still down," he murmured to Tony. "How much you wanna bet the door's unlocked?"

"Oh, come on," Tony moaned. "We're not that lucky, and they're not that stupid. They couldn't have just left the door open."

"They thought we'd be out longer," Shawn reasoned. "Why do you think they left us on the floor, when they should've tied us back to the chairs?"

"They're lazy?" Tony guessed rhetorically.

"That too," Shawn smirked. "But, honestly speaking, how many times have you been knocked out?"

Tony thought about that for a minute, his cops combining with his Fed days and going back to his irresponsible teenaged days. "A… lot…"

"Exactly, me too," Shawn confirmed. "Our brains have quicker recovery time, while I can bet that Adam has only met unconsciousness once or twice."

"Alright, I get it," Tony admitted, propping himself up on one elbow. "But still, nobody's that stupid. There's no way that door would be left open."

"One way to find out," the other man grinned.

Shawn stood from his kneeling position and reached out with his hand, feeling especially vulnerable without his most trusted sense. His hand hit the wall and he followed it, going half way around the entire room and almost tripping on Adam, still lying unconscious on the floor, before finding the door. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves, and wrapped a hand around the handle.

The handle turned, and the door pushed open, light flooding into the room and blinding Tony full in the face.

Shawn was about to turn and flash him a triumphant smirk, but a man flashed into his vision, standing literally two inches from him. A gulp seemed deafeningly loud to the psychic and he eased the door closed before the guard could notice.

"What?" Tony demanded. "What happened?"

"Guard," Shawn breathed, his voice barely above a whisper as if the man could hear him through the steel door. "Guess that answers that question."

"Did you see Greg?" Tony asked.

Shawn shook his head. "I only got a glance. Looks like Greg was right, though—we are in a factory. Wood, I think. I saw a ton of nicely polished chairs. Two more guys eyeing some monitors and another guy posted outside a door. Bet your bottom dollar that's where Greg is. There has to be at least three more hit men unaccounted for, and then, of course, our old friend Mr. Psychopath."

Tony looked at him incredulously. "You got all of that just from a glance?"

He grinned. "I made some educated guesses. My sixth sense got the rest of it."

The Fed snorted. "Right."

"Shut up."

They sat in silence, trying to come up with a plausible plan.

"Look," Shawn said finally, "if we're right about this Tazing thing Adam's going to be out for a while."

"We're going to have to carry him," Tony sighed, "and find Greg, of course."

"If he isn't already dead by now," Shawn pointed out.

The Italian glared at him, and he shrugged. "What? I'm being realistic here! Adam said the next time they came for us that was it. Zip, zero, game over. Chances are they did whatever sick thing they did to him and he's dead, end of story."

"What do you expect me to do then?" Tony demanded. "Just leave him here?"

"I didn't say that," Shawn protested. He bit his lip and sighed. "I'm just saying, id we're going to run for it, best not to get held up by liabilities."

Light dawned on Tony, and he glared at the psychic again. "You want to leave Adam here."

Shawn returned the glare. "If one of us makes it out and calls for help, it might not be too late."

"But we'd all be dead by then," Tony said.

"I don't see you coming up with a better plan!"

"Stop it!"

Both men ceased their arguments as Adam spoke, not quite yelling but definitely getting there. Their eyes blinked in the darkness, picking out his face. He had both hands clamped over his ears, his fingers pressed against his temples at the same time.

Shawn winced. "Your head's gonna hurt for a while, there, pal."

"It's okay," Adam said quietly. "But dude, shut up, please?"

"No problem," Shawn chuckled.

Adam's eyes opened a little more, growing accustomed to the darkness, and he surveyed the room with wide eyes.

"Where's Greg?"

Shawn and Tony traded glances, unsure what to say. That was enough, and Adam moaned again, turning over on his stomach. "They took him. He's dead, isn't he?"

"We don't know that," Tony said before Shawn could open his mouth.

The psychic glared at him again. "I was going to say that."

"Sure you were," Tony snorted. "Adam, we don't know for sure, okay? There's still a chance."

"We're all going to die," Adam shot back. "No offense, Fed, but optimism isn't the best quality somebody should have right now."

"We can make it," Tony argued. "If we sprint. We could make it."

"I don't know if you remember," Shawn said, "but they have really big, really scary guns out there. In no possible way could we make it all the way out without getting shot and killed."

"They won't kill us," Tony said, his voice sure. "If they do they don't get paid. They wouldn't dare."

"That doesn't stop them from shooting us," Shawn retorted. "And I don't know about you, but I don't appreciate a bullet in my gut."

"Don't you guys ever give it a rest?" Adam snapped finally. "God, just shut up!"

He let out a hard breath and slumped against the wall, glaring at the dark forms of his two fellow captives, and the three lapsed into silence once again.

Lassiter's phone buzzed, and he didn't even hear, nor feel, it the first time as he leapt into the rental car with O'Harra and Guster and sped off after the Feds. The detective swore as he fought to keep up with Gibbs; the Fed drove like a frickin' maniac.

Juliet clutched the arm rest with her hand violently as Gus tried to keep his dinner inside his stomach where it belonged.

The second time his phone buzzed it was a lot more insistent and Lassiter definitely felt it that time. He flipped open the phone, glancing at the i.d.

"It's Spencer," he said, handing the phone to Juliet.

"Shawn?" she asked, hope creeping into her voice.

Lassiter scowled. "Henry."

"Oh."

Juliet opened the text and frowned. "It's an address."

The detective closed his eyes in exasperation. "If he wants to meet, you can tell him to stick it up his ass!"

"Carlton," O'Harra scolded in that tone of hers, and Lassiter grinned wickedly, finding himself acting unceremoniously like Shawn. It disturbed him a little.

"Hey, Gus," Juliet said, her voice sounding a little uncertain, "pull up the three addresses from those factories, will you?"

Gus looked at her with a panicked expression. "You want me to look up, on the computer, three addresses while Lassiter's driving like Shawn on coffee?"

"Not on the computer," Juliet said, rolling her eyes. "We gave the addresses to you. It's on a _piece of paper, _Gus, not a computer."

"I don't see what kind of difference that makes," Gus grumbled, reaching into his pocket and lifting a folded piece of paper out of it. He handed the paper to Juliet, who thanked him quietly as she unfolded it.

"Lassiter, this address is on the list," she said after a few moments of comparison.

The detective stared at her for a brief second. "Are you kidding? He found the place Spencer's being held already?"

"That was fast," Gus mused.

Lassiter scowled. "Too fast. He probably bugged one of you."

"Bugged us?" Gus sounded offended. "I don't think he would do that to his friends."

"He's a Spencer," Lassiter shot back. "He'd do anything."

"Are you talking about Shawn, or Henry?"

"They're the same person," Lassiter growled.

Juliet and Gus shared amused glances as Lassiter forwarded the address to the rest of the teams.

Henry arrived quickly, coming up slow so the car wouldn't alert the men. As far as he could tell, the factory had been abandoned a long time ago. It was the perfect place to hide kidnap victims.

He opened the door quietly and stuck the needle into his back pocket, making sure the cap was on and wouldn't stab him in the rear if he ever sat down. In his other hand he clutched the trusty .45 pistol, made sure it was loaded, and crept to the door.

As he peered into the window he counted in his head, looking for each man that should've been there. One, by a door on the far end, two at a table playing poker for all he knew, and two more standing guard again by another door.

Two were missing, another hired gun and Montgomery. Henry longed to sit and wait it out but his best bet, and Sanders', was that he got to the young man before he bled out completely. He'd worry about the others later.

Henry eased the door open and slipped inside, thankful that he was hidden by the filthy window in the wall. The morning sun rose behind him and the door shut it out, leaving him reeling from the darkness again.

He crept forward, ducking his head as he looked around for the extra guards. Biting his lip, he judged that he could never get to either of the doors without a distraction.

Something nudged his foot as he crawled forward, and Henry looked down at a rock. It was small, but big enough to make a sound. The retired cop grinned, not believing he was doing this, hefted the rock and tossed it across the room.

Five heads jerked up, eyes alert, hands going to the nasty looking guns at their sides. Without speaking each man eyed each other, three of them heading off to find the source of the noise and two staying to guard the door again.

Henry slithered in, unseen, army-crawling up behind the two men and knocking one hard over the head. The other man had time to watch his partner his the ground without a sound before he, too, was down.

So much for the plan.

The retired cop rushed to the door and locked it tight, hoping that would hold them at least until he got Greg the antidote.

Speaking of which, he ran to the door and threw it open, finding a young man on a table, bleeding profusely, unconscious, hands cuffed above his head.

Henry winced and hurried, rushing to Sanders' side. The way he was bleeding it looked like his heart was slowing down; there was no way the antidote would pump fast enough to get to his entire body before he died. Releasing the drug straight to his heart would be most effective but also the most dangerous. That many chemicals in such a delicate organ could override his entire system, and then it would all be over.

The older man rolled his eyes skyward, made a rash decision, found a vein, and plunged the needle straight into Greg's heart.

He deployed the plunger, stepped back, and waited, watching with wide eyes for any change in the blonde.

After a few seconds Greg's breathing sped up. Henry didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he didn't have time to find out, because then the door burst open and he could hear the three men breathing hard, their eyes probably scanning the room for a threat and finding their guys unconscious.

They yelled in unison, running after the security threat.

And the ex-cop was long gone.

"Shhh," Shawn said as Tony opened his mouth to shoot a retort. "You hear that?"

Two thumps were heard by his highly trained ears, although Tony and Adam looked at him like he was crazy. Shawn decided that then would be an excellent time to astound them with his "psychic abilities."

"I think… the spirits!" he yelled, delighted. "They're speaking to me again. They're saying… it's okay to come out."

"Excuse me?" Tony said incredulously. "Are you kidding? You do remember the many many people out there with big guns that are normally used to tear people to shreds from miles away, correct?"

"Yes. But the spirits say that someone is out there, saving us."

"Maybe he's right," Adam jumped in. Tony glared at him and he shrugged. "You never know. The theory of a sixth sense hasn't been disproved. In fact there is an actual scientific study that the human brain is capable of such things—"

"Yeah, sure, whatever, geek," Tony interrupted. "If the "spirits" or whatever say it's safe, we'll trust them. For now," he said as Shawn reached to pull him into a hug.

"I can deal with that," Shawn said, dropping his arms. He pulled on the handle and yanked the door open.

Tony and Adam flinched, expecting bullets.

Shawn bounded out into the open room, grinning at the both of them. "See? What did I tell—"

The door burst open, and the men who'd been beating them for the last twenty four hours burst in, spotting Shawn.

The psychic saw them raise their weapons, staring, trapped like a deer in headlights.

"Aw, hell…"


	9. Epilogue

"Shawn! Get down!"

Tony slammed into him, fast and hard, and bullets whizzed by his head as they crashed awkwardly to the floor.

Adam ducked out the way as well, running flat out and trying not to get hit.

As this was happening Henry looked back, hearing his son's name being called, and ran inside. As his hyper observant senses took in the situation in half a second he saw one man raising a gun, automatic, heading straight for Shawn. At that range he wouldn't miss.

In that split second, several things happened at once.

Henry gripped the .45 in his palm, didn't hesitate, didn't even blink and shot the man through the head.

The man's finger squeezed the trigger once.

Shawn shoved Tony off of his chest, away from the line of fire, and rolled as much as possible.

One of the unconscious men woke up.

"Shawn!" Henry screamed, his eyes following his son as he slammed into the wall.

The psychic hadn't even heard him, still reeling from hitting his head on the cement. Tony was opposite of him, clutching his arm. Shawn could see bright red blood running down his arm. It looked painful, but as far as he could tell, a scratch.

Shawn didn't have time to properly check himself for bullet holes, when a man suddenly grabbed him around the throat, lifted him to his feet, and shoved the barrel of the very big gun under his chin.

Everything froze. Henry stared, both hands gripping the gun like it was the last lifeline he had, rock steady aim at the man who held his son hostage. Tony's limbs locked and he eyed Shawn and the second man, who was still waking up but holding Adam by his forearm. The CSI looked pale and he shook, his eyes fixed on the wall straight ahead.

Sirens sounded in the background, and both hired men jerked, feeling cornered. They traded glances, seeming to come to a silent agreement, and pulled both of their hostages towards the door.

"No!" Henry yelled, although he didn't move. He didn't dare.

Shawn gagged, reaching towards his father. Adam bit his lip hard. They cast a glance at each other. Neither looked happy about their current predicament.

And then the doors opened and they disappeared.

_To be continued…_

**I promise the sequel will be up soon! I just would like to take a break. Thanks for reading, you guys! Stick with me if you want to see how it ends!**


End file.
